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LORD BYRON'S 



POETICAL WOEKS. 



WITH 



fife anb i;ates 



BT 



ALLAK CUNNINGHAM, ESQ. 



^Uuetralcb. 



PHILADELPHIA : 
DAVIS, PORTER & COATES, 

^ 31 SOUTH SIXTH STREET. 
1866. 



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CONTENTS. 



THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR^ ^„ ix 

THE GIAOUR; A Fraomknt or a Tdbkish Talk..... 1 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS; A Tubkisb Talk 30 

THE CORSAIR; A Tale 57 

LARA; A Tale ^ ^.. 97 

THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 12« 

PARISINA 150 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON; A Fablb Ifi3 

MANFRED 172 

CAIN; A Mtstert 205 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 253 

HOURS OF IDLENESS ; A Sbriks or Poems, orioi- 

KAL AND TRANSLATED ib. 

Epitaph on a Friend 25* 

A Fragment ib. 

On learing Newstend Abbey 25i 

Adrian'! Address to his Soul when dying 257 

Translation from Catullus. Ad L«sbiam ib. 

Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibullun, by 

Pomitini Marsus ikk 

ill 



r CONTENTS. 

rAGu 
translated from Catullus. " Lucius de inorte passe- 

ris" 253 

Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen ib. 

Xranslation fiom Anacreon. To his Lyre . . 259 

— — Ode III ib. 

Prom the Prometheus Vinctus of ^schylus 200 

Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Caraoens..^ .. 261 

The First Kiee of Love ib. 

To the Duke of Dorset 262 

Granta. A Medley 261 

On a distant View of the Village and School of Har- 
row on the Hill 267 

ToM. To Woman 268 

To Mary, on receiving her Picture 269 

Love's last Adieu 270 

Damsetas 271 

To Marion 272 

Oscar of Alva. A Tale 273 

The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus 2S0 

Translation from the Medea of Euripcdes 288 

Thiaugbts suggested by a College Examination 290 

To a beautiful Quaker 291 

An Occasional Prologue to " The Wheel of Fortune." 293 

On the Death of Mr. Fox ib. 

The Tear 294 

Lachin y Gair 296 

To Romance ib. 

Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a Friend to 
the Author, complaining that one of his Descrip- 
tions was rather too warmly drawn 298 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey 299 

Childish Recollections 303 

The Death of Calmar and Orla. An imitation of 

Macphorsou's Ossian 311 

To Edward Noel Long, Esq., 315 

To a Lady 317 

Stanzas. I would I were a careless child 318 

Song. When I roved a young highlander 319 

To George, Earl Delawarr 320 

To the Earl of Clare 321 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of 
Harrow on the Hill 324 



CONTENTS. T 

FAUM 

ENGLISH LARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS; 
A Satihe 325 

THE CURSE OF MINERVA 349 

THE WALTZ; An Apostbophic Htmn 358 

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 363 

HEBREW MELODIES 367 

Sbo walks in beauty ib. 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept ib. 

If that high world.— The wild gazelle 368 

Jophtba's Daughter 370 

Oh, snatch'd away in beauty's bloom ib. 

My soul is dark. — I saw thee weep 371 

Thy days are done ib. 

Sougof Saul before his last Battle 372 

Saul. — "All is vanity, eaith tho Preacher" 373 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay 374 

Vision of Bolshazzar ib. 

Sun of the sleepless 376 

Were my bosom as false as thou deom'st it to bo ib. 

Ilerod'ii Lament for Mariamne ib. 

On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem by Titus 377 

By the Rivers of Babylon wo sat down and wept ib. 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 378 

A t'pirit pnss'd before mo 379 

DOMESTIC PIECES 380 

Fare tiicc well ib. 

A Sketch 382 

Stanza.s to Augusta 384 

Stanzas to Augusta 385 

Epi.--llu to Augusta 38*5 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RT. HON. R. 

B. SHERIDAN .390 

THE DREAM 393 

THE LAMENT OF TASSO 398 

niE VISION OF JUDGMENT 404 

'>CGASIONAL PIECES 428 



CONTENTS. 

FAOI 

Farewell, if ever fondest prayer 428 

Bright be the place of thy soul ib. 

When we two parted 429 

To a youthful Friend ib. 

Lines inscribed on a Cup formed from a Skull 431 

Well, thou art happy 432 

Inscription on the monument of a Newfoundland Dog 433 

The farewell ib. 

A Love Song 434 

There was a time, I need not name 435 

And wilt thou weep when I am low? ib. 

Fill the goblet again 436 

Stanzas to a Lady on leaving England 437 

To Florence 43S 

Stanzas composed during a Thunder-storm 439 

Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulf. 441 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown 442 

Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos ib. 

Lines written in the Travellers' Book at Orchomenus 443 

Maid of Athens, ere we pai-t ib. 

Lines written beneath a Picture 444 

Translation of the famous Greek War Song ib. 

Translation of the Romaic Song 445 

On parting 446 

Farewell to Malta 447 

To Thyrza 448 

Away, away, ye notes of woe 449 

One struggle more, and I am free 450 

Euthanasia 451 

And thou art dead, as young as fair 452 

If sometimes in the haunts of men 454 

On a cornelian heart which was broken 455 

Lines to a Lady weeping ib. 

The Chain I gave ib. 

To Samuel Rogers, Esq 456 

Address, spoken at the opening of Drury-lane Theatre, 

October, 1812 ib. 

Remamber thee, remember thee 458 

To Time ib. 

Tronslation of a Romaic Love Song 459 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle.... 460 

On being asked what was the "Origin of Love" 461 



CONTENTS. *ll 

FAGS 

Reuiomber him, whose passion's power 461 

Impromptu, in reply to a Friend 462 

Sonnet, to Goncvra <f3 

Sonnet, to the same.. ib- 

From the Portuguese ib- 

Windsor Poelics 464 

Condolatory Address »b. 

On the Death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart 465 

Stanzas for Music 466 

Ode from the French - 468 

From the French 470 

On the Star of "The Legion of Ilonour" 471 

Napoleon's Farewell 472 

Darkness '^'^■^ 

Churchill's Grave 474 

Prometheus 475 

Sonnet 477 

Childo Harold's Adieu to England ib. 

To Inez ; •••• 479 

War Song of the Greeks 4S0 

Song 481 

An Epitaph.— Life 484 

ATTRIBUTED POEMS 485 

Ode ib- 

Madame Lavalotte 487 

Farewell to England ib. 

Ode to the Island of St. Helena 493 

To the Lily of France 494 

To Jessy 495 

Enigma 498 

Fragments of an incomplete Poem 497 

NOTES "• 



THE GIAOUR: 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 



■One fatal r-'iiicmbrance— one lorrow tlint throws 
I(r bleak vli.iHe alike o'l-r our j<i)S and our woes — 
To wliicli lAl'e noihiiif; lU ki'r itor brighter can brln)(. 
For which joy hath no balm — and affliction bo ttiaf," 

MOOBI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

Fhk Ule which these diitjointed fragments present, is founded 
npon circiiQiHlunces now less common in the East thitn formerly ; 
either because the ladies are mure circumspect tlian iu the " olden 
time," or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enter- 
prise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a 
female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into 
the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her 
'.over, ut the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Repnb. 
lie of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from 
the Morca, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to 
•lie Russian invasion. Tha desertion of the Mainotes, on being 
refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that 
enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which tha 
cruelty ex<;rcised on all sides was unparalleled even iu the aonalB 
of the' faithful.l 

No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb^ which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the hotneward-veering skiff, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain ; 
When shall such hero live again ? 

* * * • « 

Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness dHigbt. 
There mildly dimpling Ocean's cheek, 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that \a,-^ 
These Edens of the eastern wave : 
And if at times a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seaa, 
Or sweep one blossom from the treos. 



THE GIAODK. 

How welcome is each gentle air, 
That wakes and wafts the odours there 1 
For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the Nightingale,^ 
The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand soiigs are heard on higli. 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows. 
Far from the w inters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by nature given 
In softest incense i)ack to heaven ; 
And grateful yields that smiling idky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might share, 
And many a grotto, meant for rest. 
That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 
Till the gay mariner's guitar* 
Is heard, and seen the evening star; 
Then stealing with the muffled oar, 
Far shaded by the rocky shore, 
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
And turn to groans his roundelay. 
Strange — that where Nature loved to triM 
As if for Gods, a dwelling-place, 
And every charm and grace hath mix'd 
Within the paradise she fix'd, 
There man, enamour' d of distress, 
Should mar it into wilderness. 
And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
That tasks not one laborious hour ; 
Nor claims the culture of his hand 
To bloom along the fairy land, 
But springs as to preclude his care. 
And sweetly woos him — but to spare I 
Strange — that where all is peace beside. 
There passion riots in her pride, 
And lust and rapine wildly reign 
To darken o'er the fair domain. 
It is as though the fiends prevail'd 
Against the seraphs they assail'd, 
And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 
The freed inheritors of hell ; 
So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 
So curst the tyrants that destroy. 



TIIR RIAOl'R. 9 

He who hath bent liin) o'er the dead 

Ere the first day of death is fled, 

The first dark day of nothingness, 

The last of danger and distress, 

(Before Decay's effacing fingers 

Have swept the lines vrhcre beauty liogoriy) 

And mark'd the mild angelic air, 

The rapture of repose that's there. 

The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 

The langoiir of the placid cheek, 

And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 

Where cold Obstruction's apathy 

Appals the gazing mourner's heart. 

As if to him it could impart 

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 

Yes, but for these and these alone. 

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 

Hestill^ight doubt the tyrant's power; 

So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 

The first, last look by death reveal'd 1 

Such is the aspect of this shore ; 

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 

We start, for soul is wanting there, 

Her's is the loveliness in death. 

That parts not quite with parting breath; 

But Beauty with that fearful bloom, 

That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 

Expression's last receding ray, 

A gilded halo hovering round decay. 

The farewell beam of Feeling past away 1 

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish' dearth I* 



Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave 1 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 
That this it all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou cravrn crotiching slave : 

Say, is not this Therniopylaj ? 
These waters blue that round you lave. 

Oh servile otT^l)I•in!!; of the free — 
Pronounce what sr.n. wlmt shorn is this? 
The gulf, the rock of Salnniis ! 
These scenes, t!i<ir ^tl■ry no! unknown, 
Arise, and make again'your own ; 



rHK GIAOUR. 

Snatch from the ashes of your sire* 
The embers of their former fires; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will^add to theirs a name of fear 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
They too will rather die than shame t 
For Freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled oft is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page^ 
Attest it ninny a deatliless agel 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb^ 
A mightier monument command, 
The mountains of their native land! 
There points tby Muse to stranger's ey« 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 
'Twcre long to tell, and sad to trace, 
Each step from splendour to disgrace; 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot sway- 

What can he tell who treads thy shore? 

No legend of thine olden time. 
No theme on which the muse might soar 
High as thine own in days of yore. 

When man was worthy of thy clime. 
The hearts within thy valleys bred. 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime, 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,' 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brutes; 
Without even savage virtue blest. 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft 
In this the subtle Greek is found. 
For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
In vain might Liberty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke. 
Or raise th« neck that courts the yoke : 
No more her sorrows 1 bewail. 
Yet this will be a mournful tale, 



THK GIAOLR. 

And they who listen may hcliave, 
Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 

« * « « * 

Far, dark, alon;; the blue sea glancing 
The sliadows or the rocks advancing 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 
And fearful for his light caique. 
He shuns the near but doubtful creek t 
Though worn and weary with his toil. 
And cuinber'd with his scaly spoil, 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an lilastern night. 

m * * * m 

Who thundering comes on l)lackest steed/ 
With siacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
The cavern 'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound 
The foam that streaks the courser's side 
Seems gatbcr'd from the ocean-tide : 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
There's none within his rider's breast; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour I* 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 
But in thy lineaments I trace 
What time shall strengthen, not efface: 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
As meteor-like thou glidest by. 
Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Othmau's sons should slay or shun. 

On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd, andvanish'd from my sight, 
His aspect and his air impress'd 
A troubled memory on my breast. 
And long upon my startled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep, 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves him from mine eye j 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fix'd on those that fle«; 



THE G-fAOUR. 

And not a star but shi'aes too bright 

On him who takes sucli timeless flight. 

He wound along ; but ere he pass'd 

One glance he snatch' d, as if his last, 

A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 

A moment breathed him from his speed, 

A moment on his stirrup stood — 

Why looks he o'er the olive wood? 

The crescent glimmers on the hill, 

The Mosque's higii lamps are quivering stillt 

Though too remote for sound to wake 

In echoes of the tar tophuike,^ 

The flashes of each joyous peal 

Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 

To-night, set Uhaniazaiii's sun ; 

To-night, the I3airam feast's begun ; 

To-night — l)ut who and what ait thou 

Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 

And what are these to thine or thee. 

That thou should'st either pause or flee ? 

He stood— some dread was on his face 
Soon Hatred settled in its place: 
It rose not with the reddening flush 
Of transient Anger's hasty blush. 
But pale as marble o'er the lomb. 
Whose ghastlv whitetiess aids its gloom. 
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed; 
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 
And sternly shook his hand on high. 
As doubting to return or fly ; 
Impatient of his fliglit delay'd, 
Here loud his ravcji charger neigh'd — 
Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade 
That sound had burst his waking dream, 
As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 
Away, away, for life he rides: 
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed'° 
Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 
The rock is doubled, aiui the shore 
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more} 
The crag is won, no more is seen 
His Christian crest and haughty mien." 
'Twas but an instant he restrain'd 
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd ; 
'Twas but a moment that he stood, 
Then sped as if by death ptirsued: 
But in that instant o'er his soul 
Winters of Memory seem'd to roll, 



r=r:3Bcr=xr-c 



^ 



TIIK lilAUUU 



And gather in that drop of lime 

A life of pain, Hn age of crime. 

C"er him who loves, or liates. or feftrs, 

Such inoinent pours the grief of years : 

M'hat felt he then, at onoe opprcst 

By all that most distracts the hreast ? 

That pause, which ponrier'd o'er i.ia fate, 

Oh, who its dreary length shall date! 

Though in Time's record nearly nought, j3 

It was Eternity to Thought ! p 

For infinite as houndless space A 

The thought that Conscience must cmbracs, s] 

Which in itself can comprehend ij 

Woe without name, or hope, or end. || 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone; s! 

And did he fly or fall alone ? > B 

Woe to that hour he came or went! \\ 

The curse for Hassan's sin was sent Sj 

To turn a palace to a tomh : S 
He came, he went, like the Simoom," ■ ■!] 

That harhinger of fate and gloom, H 

Beneath whose widely-wasting breath ^ 

The very cyjjress droops to death — « 

Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, ^ 

The onlv constant mourner o'er the dead ! U 



The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
The lonely Spider's thin gray pall 
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 
The Bat builds in his Haram bower, 
And in the fortress of his power 
The Owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
With bafBed thirst, and famine, grim ; 
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. 
'Twas sweet of yore to sec it play 
And chase the sultriness of day, 
As springing high the silver dew 
In whirls fantastically flew, * 

And flung luxurious coolness round 
The air, and verdure o'er the grounc^ 
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright^ 
To view the wave of watery light. 
And hear its melody by night. 
And oft had Hassan's Childhood plav'd 
/jound the verge of that cascade; 



Xns, GIAOUK. 

And oft upon Ins motlier's lireast 

That sound had harinoiii/.ed his rest ; 

And oft had Hassan's Youtli along 

Its bank been soothed by Beauty'S song | 

And softer seem'd each melting tone 

Of Music mingled with its own. 

But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 

Along the brink at twilight's close: 

The stream that fiU'd that font is fled — 

The blood that warm'd his heart is shed I 

And here no more shall human voice 

Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 

The last sad note tliat swell'd the gale 

Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 

That quench'd in silence, all is still, 

But the lattice thai flaps when the wind is sbriUi 

Though raves the gust, and floods the rain. 

Mo band shall close its clasp again. 

On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 

The rudest steps of fellow man. 

So here the very voice of Grief 

Might wake an Echo like relief— 

At least 'twould say, "All are not gone ; 

There lingers Life, though but in one"— 

For many a glided chamber's there, 

"Which Solitude might well forbear ; 

Within that dome as yet Decay 

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way— 

But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate, 

Nor there the Fakir's self will wait; 

Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 

For bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred " bread and salt."* 

Alike must Wealth and Poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by. 

For Courtesy and Pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, that refuge unto men. 

Is Desolation's hungry den. 
The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre «*• 

If 1^ * * * 

I hear the sound of coming feet, 
But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 
More near — each turban 1 can scan. 
And silvcr-shealhed atngliaii ;'^ 
The foremost of the hand is seen 
An Emir by his garb of gro'»n :'* 



TItK (ilAOTTl. 

" Ho ! who art thou?" — " Tliis low salam^ 
Replies of Moslem faith I am." — 
" The burthen ye so gently bear 
Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
My humble bark would gladly wait." 



" Thoa speakcst sooth ; thy skiff unmoor, i| 

And waft us from the silent shore ; ij 

Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply j' 

The nearest oar that's scatter'd by, |{ 

And midway to those rocks were sleep Hj 

Thechannei'd waters dark and deep. |{ 

Rest from your task — so — bravely done, Ji 

Our course has been right swiftly run; U 

Yet 'tis the longest voyage, 1 trow, ' Ij 

That one of— * * ♦ h 

**•*♦»' !, 

«< 

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, Ij 

The calm wave rippled to the liauk ; |i 

I watch'd it as it sank, mcthougbt ji 

Some motion from the current caught |j 

Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam j 

That checker'd o'er the living stream : j! 

I gazed, till vanishing from view, <■ 

Like lessening pebble it withdrew 

Still less and less, a speck of w hite 

That gemm'd the tidt-, then mock'd the sighlf 

And all its hidden secrets sleep, 

Known but to Genii of the deep, 

Which, trembling in their coral caves, 

They dare not whisper to the waves. 

* « « * * 

As rising on its purple wing 
The insect-queen'" of eastern spring, 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near, 
And leads him on from llower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour, 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye; 
So Beauty lures the full-grown child, 
Witli hue as bright, and wing as wild} 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd, 
Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
Prom infint's play, and man's caprice i 



10 THE GIAOUR. 

The lovely toy so fiercely sought 

Hath lost its charm by being caught^ 

For every touch that woo'd its stay 

Hath briish'd its brightest hues away, 

Till chariu, and hue, and beauty gone, 

Tis left to fly or fa'l alone. 

With wounded wing, or bleeding breait* 

Ah ! where shall eitiier victim rest ? 

Can this with faded pinion soar 

From rose to tulip as before ; 

Or Beauty, blighted in an hour 

Find joy within her broken bower ? 

No : gayer insects fluttering by 

Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that dic^ 

And lovelier things have mercy shown 

To every failing but their own. 

And every woe a tear can claim 

Except an erring sister's shame 

* * ' « * 

The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes. 

Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, 
In circle narrowing as it glows, 
The flames around their captive close, 
Till inly search 'd by thousand throes, 

And maddening in her ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain. 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain. 
And darts into her desperate brain : 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ; '^ 
So writhes the mind Remorse hath rived. 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for Hearen, 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 
Around it flame, within it death ! 

* * * » ti 

Black Hassan from the Haram flies, 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour emploji, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai, 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell ? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumours in our city say 
'Jpon that eve she fled away ; 
When Rhamazan's^ last sun was 8«t» 
And flashing from each minaret 



TRK QIAO OB. U 

Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 

Of Bairain through the boundless East. 

'Twas then she went as to the bath, 

Which Hassan vainly scarch'd in wrath ; 

For she was flown her master's rage 

In likeness of a Georgian page, 

And far beyond the Moslem's power 

Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour* 

Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd; 

But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 

Too well he trusted to the slave 

Whose treachery deserved a grave | 

And on that eve had gone to mosque, 

And thence to feast in his kiosk. 

Such is the talc his Nubians tell, 

Who did not watch their charge loo weU| 

But others say, that on that night, 

By pale I'hingari's-' trembling light, 

The Giaour upon his jet black steed 

Was sefn, liut seen alone in speed. 

With bloody spur along the shore, 

Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 

* * * * 

Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the Gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, a languishingly dark, 
■ tut soul heain'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid, 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid." 
Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 
That form was nought but breathing clay, 
By Alia! I would answer nay; 
TkoMgh on Al-Sirat's^ arch I stood, 
Which tottprs o'er the fiery flood. 
With Paradise within my view, 
And all his Ilouris'^ beckoning through. 
Ob ! who young Leila's glance could read 
And kcrp that portion of his creed, 
Which saith that woman is hut dust, 
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ."" 
On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
That through her rye the Immortal shoM| 
On her fair check's unfading hue 
The young pomegranate's^" blossoms strew 
Thoir bloom in blushes ever new , 
Her hair in byacintliinc'^ flow, 
When left to roll its folds below, 
As midst her handinaids in Ihe hall 
She stood superior to them all. 



IS TIIK GIAOUR. 

H*th swept ilie niarl)lp where her feet 
Gleaiii'd whiter ihan the luountain sleet, 
Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
The cygnet nobly walks the water; 
So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
The loveliest bird of Franguesi.Tn !^ 
As rears her crest the ruttied Swan. 

And spurns the -wave with wings of prids. 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck: — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praiMit 
Thus high and graceful was her gait; 
Her heart was tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee 1 

« • • • • 

Stern Hassan hatn a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train, 
Each arm'd as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, 
When in the pass the rebels stood, 
And few return'd to tell the tale 
Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
The pistols which his girdle bore 
Were those that once a pasha wore, 
Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with firil^ 
Even robbers tremble to heboid, 
'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
More true than her who left his side ; 
The taitlilcss slave that broke her bower. 
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
• * » • • 

The sun's last rays are on the hill. 
And sparkle in the fountain rill. 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer ; 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord 
And trembling for lus secret hoard — 
Here may he nst wherv none can see, 
In crowds a sLivo, m descrl;. iVcc; 



THR OIAOUK. 19 

And with Tm hidden wine may stain 
The bnwl a Moslem must not drain. 

• • • • • 

The foremost Tartar's in the gap, 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile. 
Ahove, the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light | 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk hefore the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there. 
Each side the midway path they lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray. 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd ; 

• • • • • 

They reacli the grove of pine at last: 
" Bismillah !" now the peril's past ; 
For yonder view the opening plain. 
And there we'll prick our steeds amain:" 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground: 

Scarce had they time to check the rein. 
Swift from their steeds the riders boimd 

But three shall never mount again: 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 

Half shelterd by the steed ; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock. 
And there await the coming shock. 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stern Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 
Than cnrl'd his very beard-* with ire, 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire: 



14 THE UIAODtt- 

m 

■' Though far and near the bullets hiM,. 
I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this.* 
And now the foe their covert quit, 
And call his vassals to submit ; 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
Nor of his little band of man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun !•* 
In fuller sight, more near and near, 
The lately ambush 'd foes appear. 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle- charger prance. 
"Who leads them on with foreign brand. 
Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
" 'Tis he ! 'tis he! I know him now ; 
I know him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye^ 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him l)y his jet-black barb : 
Though now array d in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith, 
It shall not save him from the death : 
'Tis he ! well met in any hour, 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour !" 



As rolls the river into ocean, 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion. 
In azure column proudly gleaming, 
Beats back the current many a rood. 
In curling foam and mingling flood, 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave. 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clait^ 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore. 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
"With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar; 

And pealing wide or ringing near 

Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The deathshot hissing from afar; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 

Reverberate along that val.;. 

More suited to the shepherd's tale 



THE GIAOUR. 16 

Thmijrh few the numlicrs — ilicirs the ttniSy 
Thni nciiher spares nor speaks for life I 
All! foiully yiiutliful hearts c.iii press, 
To sei/e ami share the dear caress ; 
But Love itself coiih) never pant 
For all that Boaiily sighs to grant 
With half the fervour Hate hestows 
Upon the last emhracc of foes, 
When grapi)ling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er sliall loose their holdt 
Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith ; 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 

• * • • • 

With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 

Yet dripping with the Mood he spilt; 

Yet struin'd within the sever'd hand 

Which quivers round that faithless brand; 

Ilis turhan far hehind him roll'd, 

And cleft in twain its firmest fold; 

His flowing rohe by falchion torn, 

And crimson as those clouds of mom 

Tliat, streak'd with dusky red, portend 

The day shall have a stormy end ; 

A stain on every bush that bore 

A fragment of his palampore,^^ 

His hi east with wounds unnumber'd riveB» 

His back to earth, his face to heaven, 

lal'.'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 

Yei lowering on his enemy, 

A"- if the hour that seal'd his fate 

Surviving left his quenchless hate; 

And o'er him bends that foe with brow 

As dark as his that bled below. — 

• • • • • 

" Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave ; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was \ain against the vengeful Giaour: 
He call'd on Alia — but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou I'aynim fool ! could T^eila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
And now I go — hut go alone." 



IS THE GIAOUR. 

The browsing camels' bells are tinkling : 
His Mother look'd from her lattice high — 34 

She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
'"Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
Uut ^ajied through the grate of liis kteepest towCTt 
'' Why comes he noi ? liis st«eds are fleet, 
Nor sliriiik they from the »uranier heat ; 
Why sends not the liridegioom his promised gift ? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? 
Oh, false reproacli ! yoii Tartar now 
Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
And warily the steep descends, 
And now within the valley bends ; 
And he hears the gift at his saddle bow- 
How could I deem his courser slow ? 
Right well ray largess shall repay 
His welcome speed, and weary way." 

The Tartar lighted at the gate. 

But scarce upheld his fainting weight: 

His swarthy visage spake distress, 

But this might be from weariness ; 

His garb with sanguine spots were dyed, 

But these might be from his courser's side ; 

He drew the token from his vest — 

Angel of death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest 1 

His caijiac** rent — his caftan red — 

" Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed : 

Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 

But this empurpled pledge to bear. 

Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt i 

Woe to the Giaour ; for his the guilt." 

• • • * • 

A turban^ carved in coarsest stone 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown. 
Whereon can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee : 
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine. 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solemn sound of " Alia Hu!"37 
Tet died he by a stranger's hand. 
And stranger in his native land ; 



THE GIAOUR. 17 

Yet died lie as in arms he stood. 
And unavenged, at least in blood. 
But him the maids of Paradise 

Impatient to ihcir halls invite, 
And the dark Heaven of Iloiiris' eyes 

On him shall I'laiicc for ever bright; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave* 
And wcleomc with a kiss tlic brave ! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 



But thou, false Infidel I shall writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's^' scythe ; 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis''^ throne; 
And fire unquencli'd, unquenchable. 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
The tortures of that inward hell ! 
But first, on earth as Vampire^' sent, 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire, 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 
Shall bless thee with a. father's name — 
That word shall wrap they heart iu flame! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark. 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 
Then with unhallow'd hand shall tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair, 
Of which if life a lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn. 
But now is borne away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agnny ! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip 
Thy gnashing tooth and hnggard lip*^ 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 



• 



18 THE CIAOtJR. 

Till these in Horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they ! 
* * * * 

" Ho\v name ye yon lone Caloyer? 

His features I have scann'd before 
In mine own land : 'tis many a j'ear, 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now. 
As death were stamp'd upon his brow. 

" 'Tis twice three years at summer tide 
Since first among our freres he came 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer. 
Nor e'er before confession chair 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies, 
But broods within his cell alone. 
His faith and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost, 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race. 
But only Christian in his face : 
I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made. 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wins. 
Great largess to these walls he brought. 
And thus our abbot's favour bought ; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay 
Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying. 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliff he hath been known to stand. 
And rave as to some bloody hand, 
Tresh sever'd from its parent limb, 
Invisible to all but him, 
Which beckons onward on his grave, 
And lures to leap into the wave." 



TUB (ilAOUR. 19 

Dark and unearthly is the scowl 

That glares beneath his dusky cowl: 

The flash of tliat dilating eye 

Reveals too nuich of times gone by ; • 

Though varying, indistinct its hue, 

Oft will liis glance the gazer rue, , 

For in it lurks that nainclcss spell. 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 

A spirit yet unqucll'd and high, 

That claims and keeps ascendancy ; 

And like the bird whose pinions quake. 

But cannot fly the gazing snake. 

Will others quail beneath his look, 

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 

From him the half-alFrighted Friar 

When met alone would fain retire. 

As if that eye and bitter smile 

Transferred to others fear and guile : 

Not oft to smile descendeth he 

And when he doth 'tis sad to see 

That he but mocks at misery. 

How that pale lip will curl and quiver I 

Then fix once more as if for ever ; 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e'er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 

From joyauiice ne'er derived its birth. 

But sadder still it were to trace 

What once were feelings in that face : 

Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 

But brighter traits with evil mix'd; 

And tliere are hues not always faded, 

Which speak a mind not all degraded 

Even by the crimes through which it waded. 

The common crowd but see the gloom 

Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 

The close observer can espy 

A noble soul, and lineage high : 

Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain. 

Which Grief could change, and Guilt coidd sUil^ 

It was no vulgar tenement 

To which such lofty gifts were lent. 

And still with little less than dread 

On such the sight is riveted. 

The roofless cot, dccay'd and rent. 

Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's cyej 



20 THt (ilAOUR. 

Each ivied arch, and pillar lone. 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

" Hia floatii>g rohe around him folding, 

Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle) 
With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 

The rites that sanctify the pile. 
But when the anthem shakes the choir, 
And kneels the monks, his steps retire ; 
By yonder lone and wavering torch 
His aspect glares within the porch; 
There will he pause till all is done — 
And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
See — by the half-illumined wall 
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 
That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 
As if the Gorgon there had bound 
The sablest of the serpent-braid 
That" e'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
For he declines the convent oath, 
And leaves those locks unhallow'd grovrtb, 
But wears our garb in all beside ; 
And, not from piety but pride, 
Gives wealth to walls that never heard 
Of his one holy vow nor word. 
Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
Peals louder praises to the sky, 
That livid cheek, that stony air 
Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 
Else may we dread the wrath divine 
Made manifest by awful siga. 
If ever evil angel bore 
The form of mortal, such he wore : 
By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
Such looks are not of earth nor heaven 1" 
To love the softest hearts are prone. 
But such can ne'er be all his own ; 
Too timid in his woes to share, 
Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 
And sterner hearts alone may feel 
The wound that time can never heal. 
The rugged metal of the mine, 
Must burn before its surface shine 
But plunged within the furnace-flame. 
It bends and melts — though still the same; 
Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 
'Twill serve thee to defend or kill ; 
A breast-plate for thine hour of need. 
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed 1 



THE Ol\0UR. 21 

But if a dagger's form it bear, 
Let those who shape its edge, beware ! 
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 
Can turn and tame tlie sterner heart; 
From tiicse its form and tone are ta'en, 
And what they make it, must remain. 
But break — before it bend again. 

• >):•«• 

If solitude succeed to grief. 

Release from pain is slight relief; 

The vacant bosom's wilderness 

Might thank the pang that made it less. 

We loathe what none are left to share: 

Even bliss — 'twere woe alone to bear; 

The heart once left thus desolate 

Must fly at last for case — to hate. 

It is as if the dead could feel >■ 

The icy Nvorm around them steal, 

And shudder, as the reptiles creep 

To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 

Without the power to scare away 

The cold consumers of their clay 

It is as if the desert-bird,^^ 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast. 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind, 

The waste of feelings uncmploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay. 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
Better to sink beneath tiie shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 

* • * * • 

" Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
' Mid counted beads and countless prayei 

To bid the sins of others cease, 
Thyself without a crime or care, 

Save transient ills that all must bear. 

Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 

And thou wilt bletis thee from the rage 



22 THE GIAOUR. 

Of passions fierce and uncontroU'd, 

Such as thy penitents unfold, 

Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 

Within thy pure and jiitying breast. 

My days, tlioiigh few, have pass'd below 

In much of joy, but more of woe; 

Yet still in hours of love oi strife, 

I've 'scaped the weariness of life ; 

Now leagued witli friends, now girt by foet^ 

I loathed the langour of repose. 

Now nothing left to love or hate. 

No more witli hope or pride elate, 

I'd rather be the thing that crawls 

Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
Than pass my dull unvarying days, 

Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. 
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be still. 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem: 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom. 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirit shrunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain; 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave; 
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
And in the field it had been sweet, 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I've braved it — not for honour's boast { 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To such let others carve their way, 
For high renown, or hireling ^y ; 
But place again before my eyes 
Aught that I deem a worthy prize ; 
The maid I love, the man I hate, 
And I will hunt the steps of fate, 

To save or slay, as these require, m 

Through rending steel, and rolling fire; '■' 

Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one ■ 

Who would but do— what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave. 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; 
Then let Life go to him who gave: 



THE GIAOUR. 23 

I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy — need I now 

• • • • • 

" I loved her, Friar ! nay, adored — 

But these are words that all can use— 
I proved it more in deed than word 
There's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose: 
'Twas shed for her, who died for me, 

It warni'd the heart of one ahhorr'd : 
Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy kne«, 

Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
For he was hostile to tliv creed 
The very name of Nazarene 
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands ,- 

Well wielded in some hardy hands, 
And wounds by Galileans givon, 
The surest pass to Turkish hcivven, 
For him his llouris still might wait 
Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 
I loved her — love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to prej( 
And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
If passion met not some reward — 
No matter how, or where, or why, 
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
I wish she had not loved again. 
She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 
But look — 'tis written on my brow ! 
There read of Cain the curse and crime. 
In characters unworn by time : 
Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; 
Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
Yet did he but what I had done 
Had she been false to more than one. 
Faithless to him, he gave the blow 
But true to mc, I laid him low : 
Ilowe'cr, deserved her doom might be, 
Her treachery was truth to mc ; 
To mc she gave her heart, that all 
Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall; 
And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 
His death sits lightly : but her fate 
Has nade me — what thou well mny'st hate. 



24 THE GIAtJUR. 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in wliose darkly boding ear^'' 
The deathshot peal'd of murder near, 

As filed the troop to where they fell! 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
One prayer to Alia all he made : 
He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
I gazed upon him where he lay, 
And watch'd his spirit ebb away: 
Though pierced like pard by hunters' stedy 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each feature of that sullen coi'se 
Betray d Ins rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face . 
The late repentance of that hour, 
When penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave, 
And will not soothe, and cannot save. 

• • « • 

" The cold in clime are cold in blood, 

Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
But mine was like a lava flood 

That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 
I cannot prate in puling strain 
Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
If changing cheek, and scorching vein. 
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
If bursting heart, ar.d madd'ning brain, 
And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
And all that I have felt, and feel, 
Betoken love — that love was mine. 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 
I die — but first 1 have possess'd, 
And come what may, I have been bless'd. 
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
No — reft of all, yet nndismny'd 
But for the thought of Leila slain, 
Give me the pleasure with the pain. 
So would I live and love again. 
I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
For him who dies, but her who died ; 



THE GIAOUR. 2ft 

She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 
Ah ! had she hut au earthly grave. 
This hreaking heart and tlirohhing head 
Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
She was a form of life and light, 
That, seen, became a part of sight ; 
And rose, where'er I turned mine eye, 
The iMorning-star of Memory ! 

" Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ; 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given, 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above, 
But heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought: 
A Ray of him who fonn'd the whole ; 
A Glory circling round the soul ! 
1 grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 
Then deem it e\ll, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh say, her's was not guilt ! 
She was ray life's unerring light : 
That qunnch'd, what beam shall break my nigbtf 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still. 
Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 

This present joy, this future hope, 

No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In phrensy then their fate accuse: 
In madness do those fiwrful deeds 

That seem u> .;dd but guilt to woe? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward blow { 
Who falls frcm all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear 
I reed abhorrence on thy brow. 

And this too was I born to bear ! 
'Tis true, that, like the bird of prey, 
With havocl: have I mark'd ray way : 
But this was taught me by the dove, 
To die— and know no second love. 
This le!^son yet hath man to learn. 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird that sings within the brake. 
The swan that swims upon the lake, 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 



S8 THE GIAOUR. 

And let the fool still prone to range, 
And sneer on all who cannot change. 
Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys, 
But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swau ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left belicying and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila ! each thouglit was only thine ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
For world si dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death — attest my truth! 
'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart J 

" And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 

But not the breath of human life : 
A serpent round my heai't was wreathed. 
And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, aljliorred all place, 
Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face, 
Where every hue that charm'd before 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 
The rest thou dost already know, 
And all my sins, and half my woe. 
But talk no more of penitence 
Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence i 
And if thy holy tale siere true. 
The deed that's done canst thou undo ? 
Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. 
My soul's estate in secret guess: 
But would'st thou pity more, say less. 
When thou canst bid my Leila live, 
Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 
Then plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand hath rung 
From forest-cave her shrieking young, 
And calm the lonely lioness : 
But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 

In earlier days, and calmer hours, 

"When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 



2} 



I had — All ! have I now ?— a friend ! 
To him this pledge T charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls aljsorb'd like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Yet dear to him my liiii^btcd name. 
'Tis strange — he ])rophoiir(l my doom, 

And I have smiled - I then could smile — ' 
^Vllen Prudence won d his voice assume, 

And warn — I rcck'd not what — the while ; 
But now remembrance wliispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before 
Say — that his hodings came to pass 

And he will start to hear their truth. 

And wish his words had not been sooth : 
Tell him, unheeding as I was. 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been. 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray, 
I do not ask him not to blame, 
Too gentle he to wound my name : 
And what have I to do with fame ? 
I do not ask him not to mourn. 
Such cold request might sound like scorn; 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his own of old, 
And teU him — whH, thou dost behold ! 
The \vither'd fram' Mie ruin'd mind, 
The wrack by d? ^lon left behind, 
A shrivell'd tc , , a scatter'd leaf, 
Sear'd by '.If mumn blast of grief ! 



" Tell me no more of fancy's gleam. 
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 
Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch'd, and wisb'd to weep ; 
But could n t, for my burning brow 
Throbb'd to ihe very brain as now 
I wish'd but lor a single tear. 
As something welcome, new, and dear ; 
I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 
Despair is stronger than my will. 
Waste not thine orison, despair 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 



2S THE GIAOUR. 

1 would not, if I might, be blest ; 
I want no paradise, but rest. 
'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then 
I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
And shining in her white symar,^» 
. As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
Dimly I view its trembling spark: 
To-morrow's night shall be more dark; 
And I, before its rays appear,- 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wander, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rusning from my couch, I dart, 
And clasp her to my desperate heart 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing form within my grasp, 
No heart that beats reply to mine, 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
As meet my eye, ye^ock my touch ? 
Ah ! were thv beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish'd to hold. 
Alas 1 around a shadow prest, 
They snrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-black ey«— • 
I knew 'twas false, she could not die I 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for ho cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake 
They told me wild waves roU'd above 
The face I view, the form I love 
They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave 
Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more ; 
Oh ! place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade ; whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul 
Than winds can wait or waters roll ! 
m * * * 



Tlli: GIAUUU. If 



" Such is luy name, and such my tale, 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous teai 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
And, save the cross aiiove my head, 
Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read, 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread."** 

He pass'd — nor his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Save wha'. the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day » 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of h»x he loved, or him he tlewt 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS; 

A TURKISH TALE2. 



" Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted,' 



Burks. 



CANTO THE ?iaST. 



I. 

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle, 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the txirtle, 

Now melt luio sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
Know ye the laud of the cedar and vine. 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine : 
Where the hght wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul" in her bloom ; 
Where the citron aad olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie. 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses i-hey twine. 
And aU, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
'Tis the cHme of the East ; 'tis the laud *>f t^e Sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children '::ave done ? 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they 
tell. 

II. 
Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave. 
Awaiting each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 
Old Giaffir sate in his Divan : 

Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
And though the face of Mussulman 
Not oft betrays to standers by 



TUE URIDE OF ABYDOS. ^\ 

The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride, 
His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 



* Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train disappear'd- 

" Now call me the chief of the Haram guwd." 
With Giaffir is none but his only son. 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 

" Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 

Are passM beyond the outer gate, 

(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Zuleika's face unveil'd \) 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower} 

Her fate is fix'd this very hour : ( 

Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 

By me alone be duty taught !" 

" Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say- 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way, 
But here young Selim silence brake. 

First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire. 
Ere dare to sit before his sire 1 

" Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
Mf sister, or her sable guide, 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me— 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — let the old and weary sleep— 
I could not ; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep. 
With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart beat iiigh 
Were irksome — for whate'cr my mood. 
In sooth 1 love not solitude ; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 

And, ai thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the haram's grating key, 
lleTorc the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown. 
And made earth, main, and heaven our owol 
There lingcr'd we, beguiled too long 
With Mejuoun's talc, or Sadi's song ;* 



rVi THK Uli.!)'!' "I.- AHYDOS. 

Till I, who beard tlie deep tambour^ 

Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 

To thee, and to my duty true, 

Wani'd by the sound, to greet thee flewt 

But there Zuleika wanders yet — 

Nay, Father, rage not, nor forget 

That none can pierce that secret bower 

13ut those who watch the women's tower." 

IV. 

•' Son a slave" — the Pacha said — ■ 
" From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend theboWf 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed. 
Thou, Greek in soul, if not in creed, 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire. 
Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent : 
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Mazareth ! 
Go — let thy less than woman's band 
Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
But, Ilaroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
And hark — of thine own head take heei-» 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string I" 



No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 
At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 

But every frown and every word 

Pierced keener than a Christian's sword.. 
" Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear 
Those gibes had cost another dear. 

Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ?" 

Thus held his thouj^hts their dark careerj 

And glances ev'n of more than ire 
Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 

Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
And started ; for within his eye 

He read how much his wrath had done; 

He saw rebellion there begun : 

' Come hither, boy — what, uo r6ply ? 



THK BRIDK OP ABYDOS. 88 

I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
But if thy beard had manlier length, 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I'd joy to see the break a lance, 
Albeit against my own perchance." 

As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Sebm's eye he fiercely gazed: 

That eye return'd him glance for glance, 
A».d ;)roadly to his sire's was raised, 

Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance— 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
' Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one dav work me more annoy : 
I never lovcu iiim from his birth,. ,- 

And — but his arm is Utile worth. 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope. 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life— 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no more— 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab" to my sight. 
Or Christian crouching in the fight- 
But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear 
She is the ufTspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet, as the desert's fountain vraye. 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine. 

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now." 



VI. 

Fair as the first that fell of womankind. 

When on that dread yet lovely seri)ent smiling, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind 

But once bcguil'd, an<l ever more beguiling; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 

To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 

And paints the lost on Earth revived in heaven ; 



34 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 

Soft as tlie memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which Cnildhood wafts above; 
Was she, the daughter of that rude old chief, 
Who met the maid with tears— but not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly woihIs essay 
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of Loveliness? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone; 
The light of love, tlie purity of grace, 
The mind, the Music breathing from her face, 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole— 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 

11 er graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently-budding breast; 

At one kind word those anus extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and carest, 
Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
His |)urpose half within him melt : 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feel; 
Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 

" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress. 

In losing what I love so well, 

To bid thee with another dwell : 

Another ! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman^ 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 

First of the bold Timariot bands 
That wfin and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou: 
His years need scarce a thought employ t 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower: 
And his and my united power 



TUK BItlDK OK ABYUOS. 3i 

U'ill Inugh to biorr t^o death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan. 
And teach the messenger*' what fato 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou knowest thy lather's will; 

All that thj' sex bath need to know. 
"I'was mine lo tcacli (.)i)i Uiciice suH— 
The way to lo.ve, thy lord may show.'' 

Vlll. 

In silence bow'd the virgin's head; 

And if her eye was filled with tears 
That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
And changed her t-'^cek from pale to red, 

And red to pale, as tluougli her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
Even Pity scarce can wish it lessl 

Whate er it was the sire forgot ; 

Or if rcnicml;er'd, mark'c! it not ; 

TLricc clapp'd his hands, and call'd his ste*4f' 

Resigu'd his gcm-adorn'd chibouque,'* 
And mour.tir:g featly for the mead, 

With M;iiigrabee" jiid .Mamaluke, 

His w;iy amid iiis Delis took,^2 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch well the Haram's massy doors. 

IX. 

His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 

That swiftly glides and gently swells 

Between tljc winding Dardanelles; 

But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 

Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 
Mix in the game of luimic slaughter. 

Careering cleave the folded felt'' 

With sabre stroke right sharply dealt; 

Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 

Nor heard their Ollohs" wild and loud — 
He thonght bat of nld Giailir's daughter ! 



No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 



36 THE BRIDE OP A.BTDO 

Still gazed he through the lattice grat«, 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd. 
But little from his aspect learn'd ; 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak. 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. . 
Yet speak she must ; but when essay ? 
" How strange he thus should turn away 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet," 
Tlirice paced she slowly through the roon8« 

And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd : 

She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's^^ perfume, 
And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
The pictured roof"' and marble floor : 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal address'd. 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
" What, sullen yet ? it must not he— 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee 1" 
She saw im ourious order set 

The fairest flowers of eastern land— 
" He lov'd them once ; may touch them yet 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; 
The next fond moraent saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul beais ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song : 
And though his note is somewhat sad. 
He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
V/ith some faint hope his alter' d lay 
May siflg these gloomy thoughts away. 



What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 

Nay, then I am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 

And know'st thou not who loves thee best > 
Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
Say, is it me thou hat'sl or fearest ? 
Come, lay thy head upon ray breast, 
(^nd I will kiss thee into rest. 



TliB URIOi: OV AUYO03. 37 

Since words of mine, and songs must fail} 

Ev'n from my fabled nighiingale 

I knew our sire at times was stern, 

But this from thee liad yet to learn. 

Too well 1 know he loves thee not ; 

But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 

Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan— 

This kinsman Bjy of Carasman 

Perhaps may prove son\e foe of thine : 

If so, 1 swear by Mecca's shrine, 

If shrines that ne'er approach allow 

To woman's step admit her vow. 

Without thy free consent, command, 

The Sultan should not have my hand ! 

Think'st thou that I could bear to part 

With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 

Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side. 

Where were thy friend — and who my guide? 

Years have not seen, Time shall not see 

The hour that tears my soul from thee : 

Even Azracl," from his deadly quiver, 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust !" 

XII. 

He lived — he breathed— lie moved— he felt; 
lie raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt; 
With thoughts that burn— in rays that melt 
As the stream late conceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the light of its billows; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

From the black cloud that bound it. 
Flash'd the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill directed knife, 
Starts not to niore convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, displayed, 
And all. before repress'd, betray'd : 
'• Now thou art mine, for ever mine. 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign; 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 



58 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 

Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done 

That vow hath saved more heads than one. 

Rut blench not thou— thy simplest tress 

Claims more from me than tenderness ; 

I would not wrong the slenderest hair 

That clusters round thy forehead fair, 

For all the treasures buried far 

Within the caves of Istakar.'S 

This morning clouds upon me lower'd, 

Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 

And Giaffir almost call'd me coward 1 

Now I have motive to be brave: 

The son of his neglected slave, 

Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave, 

May show, though little apt to vaunt, 

A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 

His son, indeed! — yit, thanks to thee, 

Perchance I am, at least shalt be ; 

But let our plighted secret vow 

Be only known to us as now. 

I know the wretch who dares demand 

From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 

More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 

Holds not a Musselim's'9 control: 

Was he not bred in Egripo ? *<> 

A viler race let Israel show ; 

But let that pass — to none be told 

Our oath, the rest shall time unfold. 

To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 

I've partisans for peril's day : 

Think not I am what I appear : 

I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near/* 

XIII. 

•• Think not thou art what thou appearest! 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou'rt from thyself estranged^ 
My love thou surely knew'st before, 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay. 

And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day ; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
Like this — and this — no more than this/ 
For Alia ! sure thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing? 
My own have nearly caught the same. 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 



u= 



FHK UKIDG OF ABYDOS. 39 

To sootlic thy sickness, watch thy health, 

I'ai take, but never waste thy wealth, 

Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by. 

And lighten half thy poverty ; 

Do all but close thy dying eye, 

For that I could not live to try : 

To these alone my thoughts aspire 

More can I do ? or thou require ? 

But, Selira, thou must answer why 

We need so much of mystery ? 

The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 

But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well ; 

Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' friendB, 

Beyond my weaker sense extends, 

I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : j- 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be what I have ever been ? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy ? 
These cherish'd thoughts, with life begun, 

>Say, why must I no more avow ? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth j my pride, and thine till now ? 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will repine : 
No ! happier made by that decree ! 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compeli'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good ; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Alia ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime. 

And such it feels while lurking here; 
Oh, Sclim ! tell me yet in time. 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah 1 yonder see the Tchocadar^i, 
My father leaves the mimic war: 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 

I tremble now to meet his eye — 
<Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?" 

XIV. 

Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet; 

And now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, impost, levies, state. 

There's fearful news from Danube's banks, 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks I 

Our Sultan hath a shorter way 

Such costly iriumph to repay. 

But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warned the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come : 

Then softly from the Haram creep 

Where we may wander by the deep. 

Out garden-battlements are steep; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a haram key." 

Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
Did word like this — " 

" Delay not thoat 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear: 
I am not, love ! what I appear." 



CANTO THE SECOND. 

I. 

The winds are high on Helle's waves, 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave. 
The only hope of Scstos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 



THE BRIDE UP ABYDOS. 4| 

Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 

And sliriekiiig sea-birds wiirn'd him home; 

And clouds aloft and tides hclow, 

With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 

lie could not see, he would not hear, 

Or sound or sign foreboding fear; 

His eye but saw that light of love, 

The only star it hail'd above ; 

His ear hut rang with Hero's song, 

" Ye waves, divide not lovers long!" — 

That tale is old, but love anew 

May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 



The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
And Night's descending shadows hide 

That field with blood bedew'd in vain. 
The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
The tombs, sole relic of his reign, 
All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 

III. 

Oh ? yet — for there ray steps have been ; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore. 
These limbs that bouyant wave hath borne — 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore. 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
And that arouud the undoubted scene 

Thine own " broad Hellespont " still dashei^ 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 

The night hath closed on Helle's stream. 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme t 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam. 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow; 
That mighty heap of gathcr'd ground 
Which Ammon's son r;in proudly round,** 
By nations raised, bv monarchs crown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow I 

Within — tny dwelling-place how narrow 1 



42 THE BRIDE OF ABYBOS. 

Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that teas beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone 
But Thou — thy very dust is gone ! 



Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear^ 

Till then — no beacon on the cliflf 

May shape the course of struggling skiff; 

The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay. 

All, one by one, have died away ; 

The only lamp of this lone hour. 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken Ottoman 
Are thrown the fragment beads of amber. 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ;2"' 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet,^* 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this hfe, and win the next; 
And by her comboloio ^5 lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes : 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem' d from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold f 

Bloom flowers in urns of China's mou..d ; 
The richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite. 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 

VI. 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear. 

To guard from winds of heaven the breas* 
As heaven itself to Selim dear. 

With cautious steps the thicket threading, 
And starting oft, as through the glade 
The gust its hollow raoanings made. 

Till on the smoother pathway treading, 

More free her timid bosom beat. 
The maid pursued her silent guide; 



TIIK llUlUh Uf AUYUUS. 49 

Ami thougli ncr terror urged )etreat, 
How could she quit her Sclim's side ? 
IIow teach her lender lips to chide ? 

VII. 

They rcach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie , ; 

She dream'd what Paradise might be: 
NVhere women's parted soul shall go 
Her Prophet had disdain'd to show; 
But Seliui's mansion was secure, 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss, 
Without her, most l)eloved in this I 
Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell ; 
What Houri soothe him half so well ? 

VIII. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot: 

It might he Only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light: 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt. 

And one was red — perchance with guilt 1 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt.' 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What may this mean ? she turu'd to see 

Her Selim — "Ohl can this be he ?" ] 

IX. 

Hifl robe of pride was thrown aside, 

His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red, 

Wreathed hghtly round, his temples woi* 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem. 
No longer glitter'd at his waist. 
Where jiistols unadorn'd were braced; 
And from his belt a sabre swung. 
And from his shoulder iou^cly hung 



34 Tiiii uaiDh: of abydos. 

The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote : 
Beneath — his golden plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and boiuuL 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
lu him was some young Galiongee.26 



" I said I was not what I seem'd ; 

And now thou see'st my words were trut s 
I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 
If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 'twere vain to hide, 
I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
But had not thine own Hps declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove: 
But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika ! I am not thy brother 1 



" Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay— 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more 1 

My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
But know me all I was before. 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still, 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see! 
My breast is ofFer'd — take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe ; 
And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child. 
For whom thou wert contemn d, reviled* 
If not thy sister — wouidst thou save 
My life, oh 1 bid me be thy slave I 



THE BRIDE OF ABYD08. 45 

XII. 

" My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine ; 

But, gentle love, this transport calm, 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 

swear it by our Prophet's shrine. 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran'-' verse display'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika knovy, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided. 

Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Giaffir all 

That Seliui late was deem'd to thee ; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, "^ 

But spared, at least, my infancy; 
And luU'd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet 
lie rear'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain -.^^ 
lie watch'd me like a lion's whelp. 

That gnaws and yet may break his chaiilf 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take; 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 



XIII. 

" How first their strife to rancour grev? 

If love or envy made them foes, 
It matters little if I knew ; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remembcr'd yet in Bosniac song. 
And Paswan's'-'^ rebel hordes. attest 
How little love they bore such guest: 
His death is all I need relate. 
The stem effect of Giaffir's hate; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me firMu 

XIV. 

" When Paswau, after years oi strife. 
At last for power- but first for life. 



THE UKIDE OF ABYDOS. 

In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
Nor last nor least iu high command, 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
Thej' gave their horsetails"" to the wind, 

And mustering in Sophia's plain 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'dl 

To one, alas I assign'd in vain ; 
What need of words .' the deadly bowl, 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
Witlf venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and fevciish in the hath, 

He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a' bribed attendant bore; 
He drank one draught, 3' nor needed more I 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

XV. 

" The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalick was gain'd : — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 
By bun a brother's murder stain'd 
'fis true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill got treasure, soon replaced. 
Would'st question whence ? Survey the wa*te^ 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broihng brow! — 
Why me the stern usurper spared, 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. i>hame, regret, remorse. 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
Or some unknown cabal, iJaprice, 
Preserved me thus ; — but not iu peace : 
He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI. 

*' Within thy father's house are foes ; 

Not all who break his bread are true 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few : 



THE BRIDE OF ABYOOS. 47 



They only irant a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Ilaroun only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh 
He in Abdallah's palace grew, 

And held that post in his Serai 

Whicli holds he here — he saw liim die : 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; ^ 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, 
He led me helpless to his gate, 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 

To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me ; 
Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haronn, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains, 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to mc reveals : 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends 1 



" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 

But harslier still my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

1 saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn. 

Is leader of those pirate hordes. 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords 
To hear whose desolating tale» 
Would make thy waning checK more pale: 
Those arms thou see'st my band have brought. 
The bands that wield arc not remote ; 
This cup, too, for the nigged knaves 

Is fiU'd— once quaflF'd, they ne'er repine: 
'Our prophet might forgive the slaves; 

They're only infidels iu wine. 



48 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 

XVIII. 

" What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 

A.nd taunted to a wish to roam ; 

And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! — 

In full Divan the despot scoff'd, 

As if wy weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or the brand : 

He ever went to war alone, 

And pent me here untried— unknown ; 

To Haroun's care with women left, 

By hope unblest, of fame bereft. 

While thou — whose softness long endear'd. 

Though it unmann'dme, still had cheer'd— 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awaitedst there the field's event. 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke. 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er 
'Tis vain — my tongue can not impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart. 
When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd. Earth, Ocean, Sun and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paiut to thee 
That more than feeling — I was free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine 
The World—nay, Heaven itself was mine i, 



" The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
I long'd to see the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
I sought by turns, and saw them all ;32 

But when and where I join'd the crew. 
With whom I'm pledg'd to rise or fall, 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 



" 'Tis true, they are a lawless brood, 
But rough ir form, uor mild in mood; 



rHK BKIDK OK AliYDOS. 

And every creed, nnd every ract;, 

With them h:ith found — may find a placet 

But open sjjeech, and ready hand. 

Obedience to their chiefs command ; 

A soul for every enterprise, 

That never sees with terror's eyes ; 

Friendship for each, and faith to all, 

And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 

Have made them fitting instruments 

For more than cv'n my own intents. 

And some — and I have studied ail 
Distinguisli'd from the vulgar rank, 

But chiefly to my council call 
The wisdom of tlie cautious Frank — 

And some to higher thoughts aspire, 
The last of Lamhro's^^ patriots there 
Anticipated freedom share ; 

And oft around the cavern fire 

On visionary schemes debate 

To snatch the Rayahs^-* from their fate. 

So let them case their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; 
I have a love for freedom too. 
Ay ! let me like the ocean-Patriarch^' roam 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home!''*" 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
Are more than cities and Serais to me : 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
Across the desert, or before the gale. 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prawt 
But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou I 
Thou, my Zulcika, share and bless my bark ; 
The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife. 
Be thou the rainbow to the stonns of life I 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call; 
Soft — as the melody of youthful days. 
That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise; 
Dear as his native song to exile's ears, 
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
Blooming as Aden^" in its earliest hour. 
A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy— at thy command ! 
Girt by my band, Znleika at my side. 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck mvbride. 
7 



60 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 

The Haram's languid years of listless ease 

;\.re well resigu'd for cares — for joys like these: 

Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 

Unnumber'd perils, but one only love : 

Yet well ray toils shall that fond breast repay, 

Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 

How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill. 

Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 

Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown 

To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 

To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 

Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 

Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide: 

Friends to each other, foes to aught beside: 

Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 

By fatal Nature to man's warring kind: 

Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease \ 

He makes a solitude, and calls it— peace ! 

I like the rest must use my skill or strength. 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's length: 

Power sways but by division — her resource 

The blest alternative of fraud or force ! 

Ours be the last : in time deceit may come 

When cities cage us in a social home : 

There ev'n thy soul might err — how oft the heart 

Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 

A.nd woman, more than man, when death or woe, 

Or even disgrace, would lay her lover low, 

Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! — not Zuleika's name 1 

But life is hazard at the best ; and here 

No more remains to win, and much to fear 

Yes, fear! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 

By Osman's power, and GiaflBr's stern decree. 

That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale. 

Which love to-night hath promised to my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest. 

Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charmg ; 

Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 

Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 

So that those arms cling closer round my neck, 

The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 

No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

The war of elements no fears impart 

To Love, whose* deadliest bane is human Art. 

There lie the only rocks our course can check : 

Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape 1 

This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 



TBB UniDF. OK AUVDOS. 61 

Few words remain of mine my talc to close ; 
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes : 
Yea — foes — to me will Gialfir's hate decline ? 
And is not Osman, who would part us, thiue ? 



XXI. 

" His head and faith from doubt and death 

Returu'd in time my guard to save ; 

Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while : 
And since, though parted from my band, 
Too seldom now I leave the land, 
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere'I have heard and doom'd it too: 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'Tis fit I ofiener share liie toil. 
But now too long I've held thine ear; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
And would'st thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance, his life who gave thee thine, 
With me, this hour away— away 1 

Buc yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Would'st thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths impaited now, 
Here rest 1 — not to see thee wed; 
But be that peril on my head I " 

XXII. 

Znlcika, mute and motionless, 

Stood like that statue of distress. 

When, her last hope for ever gone. 

The mother harden'd into stone ; 

All in the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger Niobe. 

But ere her lip, or ev'n her eye, ^ 

Essay 'd to speak, or look reply, 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 

Another — and another — and another — 

" Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than brotbert* 

Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 

The fearful lights are gleaming red : 

Nor these alone — for each right hand 

Is ready with a sheathless brand. 

Thoy part, pursue, return, and wheel 

With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 



)2 THE BRIDE OP ABYD09. 

And last of all, his sabre waving, 
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh 1 must that grot be Selim's grave ? 

xxtii. 
Dauntless he stood — " 'Tis come — soon past^- 
One kiss, Zuleika — 't is my last : 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash I 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept ; 

His pistol's echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their gars, 'tis but to see me die 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 

Yet stay within — here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance, 
Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire 
If in this strife I seek thy sirel 
No — though by him that poison pour'd : 
No — though again he call me coward 1 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No — as each crest save his may feel ! " _ 

XXIV. 

One bound he made, aiid gaiii'd the sandt 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears— not five oars' length— 
His comrades strain with desperate strength— 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 
His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay. 
Their sabres glitter through the spray; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they toudh the land ! 



TUR BRIUK or ABYU03. M 



They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter— 
His heart's best blood is on the water. 



Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 

Or scarcely grazed its force to feel. 

Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 

To where the strand and billows met : 

There as his last step left the land, 

And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 

Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sou ght in vain ? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fixed his chain. 
Sad ])roof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray: 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
•When, at the instant, hissed the ball — 
" So may the foes of GiafSr fall ! " 
Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err? 
'lis thine — Abdallah's Murderer! 
The father slowly rued thy hate. 
The son hath found a quicker fate ; 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling. 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling— 
If aught his lips essay'd to groan, 
The rushing billows choked the tone 



Morn slowly rolls the clouds 4way ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
Arc silent ; but some signs of fray 
That strand of strife may bear. 
And fragments of each sbivcr'd brand ; 
Steps Btamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be niark'd ; not far remote 

A broken torch, an oarlcss boat; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a while capote ! 
'Tis rent in twain — one dark-red staia 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 
But where is he who wore? 



54 THE BRIDE OF ABYUOS. 

Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, 

Go, seek them where the surges sweep 

Their burthen round Sigaeum's steep 
And cast on Lemnos' shore ; 

The sea-birds shriek above the prey 

O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 

As shaken ou his restless pillow, 

His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 

That hand, whose motion is not life, 

Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 

Flung by the tossing tide on high, 
Then levell'd with the wave '^ — 

What recks it, though that corse shall lie 
Within a living grave? 

The bird that tears that prostrate form 

Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 

The only heart, the only eye 

Had bled or wept to see him die. 

Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
And mourn' d above his turban-stone,39 

That heart hath burst— that eye was closed- 
Yea— closed before his own ! 

XXVI I. 

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And wsman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pjde : 
Zuleika ! last of Giaffir's race, 

Thy destined lord is come too late : 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wuHeh ^^ vvarn his distant ear? 

Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 

The Koran -chanters of the hymn of fate, 

The silent slaves with folded arras that wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 

Tell him thy tale! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall '. 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 
He was tny hope— thy joy— thy love— thine all — 

And that last thought on him thou could'st not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild cry— and all was still. 

Peace to thy broken heart and virgin grave ! 
Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
That grief— though deep— though fatal— was thy first ! 
Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies ! 
The worm that will not sleep— and never dies ; 



THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 55 

Thought of the fjloomy day nnd phaRlly night, 

That drciuls tho darkness aud yet loathes tho light, 

That winds around, and tours tho quivering heart! 

Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 

Woo to thoc, rash and unrelenting chief! 
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly tho sackcloth o'er thy limhs dost spread; 
By that same hand Abdallah— Selim bled. 

Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief; 

Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Usman's bed, 

She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed. 
Thy Daughter's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam. 
The Stai- hath set that shone on Helle's stream, 

What quench'd its ray?— the blood that thou hast shedl 

Hark ! to the 'hurried question of Despair : 

" Where is my child? "—an Echo answers — " Where?"*' 

xxvm. 

Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms. 

And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited Love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Ev'n in that deadly grove — 
A Sngle rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
It looks as planted by Despair — 

So white— so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem— in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom agtfin ; 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour. 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower ;^ 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings. 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, 



&6 THE BRIDK OF ABYOOQ. 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain 

For they who listen cannot 'cave 

The spot, hut hnger there and grieve, 
As if they loved in vain ! 

And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 

'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread. 

Ttiey scarce can bear the morn to break 
That melancholy speL, 

And longer yet would weep and wake, 
He sings so wild and well ! 

But when the day-blush bursts from high 

Expires that magic melody. 

And some have been who could believe, 

(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 
Yet harsh be they that blame,) 

That note so piercing and profound 

Will shape and syllable^^ jts sound 
Into Zuleika's name. 

'Tis from her cypress' summit heard, 

That melts in air the liquid word : 

'Tis from her lowly virgin earth 

That white rose takes its tender birth. 

There late was laid a marble stone ; 

Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone ! 

It was no mortal arm that bore 

That deep fixed pillar to the shore ; 

For there, as Helle's legends tell, 

l^ext morn 'twas found where Selim fell ; 

Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 

Denied his bones a holier grave • 

And there by night, reclined, 'tis said, 

Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 

And hence extended by the billow, 

'Tis named the " Pirate-phantom's pillow I* 

Where first it lay that mourning flower 

Hath flourished ; flourisheth this hour, 

Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 

As weeping Beauty's cheek at sorrow's i$hl 



THE CORSATR; 

A TALE. 



I luoi pensieri in lui donnir non ponno." 

Tasso, Oerusalemme Liberata, canto Xi 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



' ncssun maggior dolore. 



Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 

Nella miseria, -" — Dantb. 



" O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home I 
These are our realms, no Lraits to their sway— » 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious. slave 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
Not Ihou, vain lord of wantonness and case! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please— 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
The exulting sense— the pulse's maddening play. 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fijht, 
And turn what some deem riangcr to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens sliun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel— to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 
No dread of death— if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose: 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
Wlien lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ? 
Let him who crawls enamonr'd of decay, 
Chng to his couch, and sicken years away; 
F 



58 THE COKSAIR. 

Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head; 
Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul. 
Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day. 
When those wlio win at length divide the prey, 
And cry. Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now." 



Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle, 

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while : 

Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 

And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 

In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 

They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand i 

Select the arms — to each bis blade assign. 

And careless eye the blood that dims its shine; 

Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar. 

While others straggling muse along the shore; 

For the wild bird the busy springes set. 

Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net; 

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies. 

With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; 

Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 

And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 

No matter where — their chiefs allotment this ; 

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But wlio that Chief ? his name on every shore 

Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command ; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess. 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 

That goblet passes hinx^untasted still — 

And for his fare — the rudest of bis crew 

Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest lOOtSy 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he siiuns the grosser joys of sense. 

His mind seems nourislied liy tliat aljstinence. 



THK COKSAIR. 59 

"Steer to that shore!" — they saU. "Do this!" — 't« 

done: 
" Now form and follow me \" — the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

III. 
" A sail ! — a sail !" — a promised prize to Hope 
Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 
No prize, alas !— hut yet a welcome sail ; 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 
Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck- 
To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 

IV. 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 

The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings : 

And gathering loiterers on the land discern 

Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 

'Tis mann'd— the oars keep concert to the strand, 

Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 

Hail to the welcome shout! — the friendly speech! 

When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach; 

The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 

And the heart's promise of festivity! 

V. 

The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd: 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear wordt 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless ? 
From where the battle roars — the billows chafe— 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe } 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes !" 



" Where is our chief ? for him we bear report — 
And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — shortf 



60 THE CORSAIR. 

Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief; 

But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief : 

Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return, 

And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 

Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 

To where his A-atch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 

l>y bushy brake and wild flowers blossoming, 

And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 

Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins bxirst, 

Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 

From crag to cliif they mount — Near yonder cave, 

What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 

In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 

Not oft a resting-stafF to that red hand ? 

" 'Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here — as wont alone; 

On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 

The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 

His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 

We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his moody 

When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 



VII. 

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent ; — 

He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 

These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 

He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 

" These letters. Chief, are from the Greek — the spy, 

Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 

Whate'er his tidings, we can well report 

" Jluch that" — " Peace, peace !"— he cuts their prating 

short, 
Wondering they turn ; abash'd, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside. 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride 
He read the scroll—" My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo 1" 

" In the anchor'd baik." 
" There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 

" To-night, Lord Conrad ?" 

" Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one liour — and we are gone. 



THU CORSAIR. 61 

Sling on thy bu^le — see that free from rust, 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
And give its guard more room to lit my hand. 
This let the armourer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay's expired." 

VIII. \f'' 

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, ./' 

Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 

Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides ; 

And who dare question aught that he decides ? 

That man of loneliness and mystery, 

Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 

Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, r 

And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue 

Still swiiys their souls with that commanding art 

That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 

What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 

Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain .' 

What should it be, that thus their faith can bind ? 

The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 

Liiik'd with success, assumed and kept with skill 

That moulds another's weakness to its will; 

Wields svitli their hands, but, still to these unknown. 

Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 

Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 

The many still must labour for the one 1 

'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 

Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils 

Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 

Mow light the balance of his humbler pains 1 



Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face. 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire: 

Robust but not Herculean— to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height; 

Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sun-burnt his check ; his forehead high and pale, 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

.\nd oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce con 



C2 THE CORSAIR. 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mein» 

sun seems there something he would not have seen: 

His features' deepening lines and varying hue 

At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 

As if within the murkiness of mind 

Work'd feelings fearful and yet undefined ; 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close inquirj his stern glance would quell. 

There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 

The full encounter of his searching eye : 

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 

At once the observer's purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back his scrutiny. 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to-day. 

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 

That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell 1* 

X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
Within — within — 'twas there the spirit wrought ! 
Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 
He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tread, and upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony. 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze or glow. 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years 1 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 

XI. 

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilt's worse instrument — 
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driyen 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 



THE CORSAIR. 63 

Warp'd l»y the world in Disaiipointmcnt's school, 

In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 

Dooin'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 

And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 

Nor deein'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 

Had left him joy, and means to give again. 

Fear'd — shunn'd — belied^ere youth had lost her force, 

He hated man too much to feel remorse, 

And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 

To pay the injuries of some on all. 

He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 

The rest no better than the thing he scem'd ; 

And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 

Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 

He knew himself detested, but he knew 

The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded too. 

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 

From all affection and from all contempt : 

H.s name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 

Hut they that fear'd him dared not to despise: 

Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 

The slumbering venom of the folded snake: 

The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 

The last expires— but leaves no living foe; 

Fast to the doom'd olTender's form it clings, 

And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings 1 

XII. 

None arc all evil — quickening round his heart, 

One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 

Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 

By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 

Vet 'gainst that i)assion vainly still he strove, 

And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 

Yes, it was lo\e— unchangeable — unchanged. 

Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 

Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 

He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by; 

Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, _^ 

None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. ^ 

Yes — it was Love— if thoughts of tendernese. 

Tried in temptation, strcngthcn'd by distress. 

Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime. 

And yet — Oh more than all 1 — unlired by time 

Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 

Could render sullen were she ne'er to smile, 

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 

Ou her one murmiu- of his discontent; 



64 



THE CORSAtR. 



Which still would meet. wiUi joy, with calitinesi part 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart; 
Which naught removed, nor menaced to remove— 
If there he love in mortals — this was love ! 
lie was a villain— ay — reproaches shower 
On him — hut not the passion, nor its power, 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 

XIII. 

He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
" Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
'Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 
We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 
Ah — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams 1 
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze 1) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 
Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 
Yet was I brave— mean boast where all are brave 
Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
This common courage which with brutes we share. 
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair. 
Small merit claims — but 'twas my nobler hope 
To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed : 
No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 
So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
My lot hath long had little of ray care, 
But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 
Is this ray skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 
Oh Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 

XIV. 

Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill: 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes the bird of beauty sung : 



THE consAiR. 65 

I. 

" Deep In my soul that tender secret dwells, 

Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 

Then trembles into silence as before. 

2. 

" There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen; 

Which not the darkness of despair can damp,' 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 

3. 

" Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there recline 

The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 

4. 

" My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear : . 

Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 
Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear. 

The first — last — sole reward oi so much love I" 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er: 
" My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 

" In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 

Without thine ear to listen to my lay. 

Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray ; 

Still must each accent to my bosom suit. 

My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute I 

Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 

My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind-^ 

And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 

The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; 

Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge. 

That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge; 

Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 

Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 

And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 

And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 

Oh 1 how the chill blast on my bosom blew. 

And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 

And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 

Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 

At length — 'twas noon — I hail'd and blest the mast 

That met my sight — it near'd — Alas 1 it passed 1 

Another came — Oh God ! 'twas thine at last ! 



66 TUE CORSIA.U. 

Would that those day's were over ! wilt thou ne'er. 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ! 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam : 
rhou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will !" 

" Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been changed! 

Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like avenged, 

Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 

And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 

Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 

My very love to thee is hate to them, 

So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 

I ceased to love thee when I love mankind : 

Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 

Assures the future that my love will last ; 

But— Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, 

This hour again — but not for long — we part." 

" This hour we part ! my heart foreboded this : 

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 

This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 

Yon bark hath hardly anchored in the bay ; 

Her consort still is absent, and her crew 

Have need of rest before they toil anew : 

My love ! thou mock'st my weakness; and would'st steel 

My breast before the time when it must feel ; 

But trifle now no more with my distress, 

Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 

Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 

The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 

Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 

See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 

And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 

At such as seem'd the fairest ; thrice the hill 

My steps have wound to try the coolest rill; 

i'es ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 

See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 

The grapes' gay juice thy l)osom never cheers ; 

Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears: 

Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 

What others deem a penance is thy choice. 

But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 

Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 

Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 

And join with me tne dance, or wake the song ; 



THi; coiisAiu. G7 

Or my guitar, which still iIkhi lov'st to hear, 

Shall soothe or lull — or, shoulii it vex thine ear, 

We'll turn the tale, hy Ariosto told. 

Of fair Olyinpia loved and left of old. 

Why — thou wcrt worse than he who hroke his VOW 

To that lost damsel, shonldst thou leave me now ; 

Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile, 

When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 

Whieh I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 

And tluis, h:i!f sportive, half in f.ar, I said, 

Lest time should raise that doubt to more than dread. 

Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main: 

And he deceived me — for — he came again!" 

" Again — again-;— aiul oft again — my love! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing ; 

The why — the wliere— what boots it now to tell? 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell! 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes; 

And here shall wateb a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden sii'ge and long defence prepared : 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 

Our matrons and thy handuiaids with thee stay ; 

And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List — 'tis the bugle " — Juan shrilly blew — 

" One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu ! " 

She rose — she sprang — she clung to his embrace, 
Till his heart heaved beneath her ludden face, 
lie dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye. 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Iler long fair hair lay floating o'er his aruis, 
In all the wildness of disheveU'd charms; 
Scarce beat that bosom \vhere his image dwelt 
So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt! 
Hark — peals the thunder of the signal gun ! 
It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly press'd, 
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
And totterinq' to the couch his bride he bore. 
One moment gazed— as if to gaze no more; 
Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Courad gone? 

XV. 

" And is he gone ! " — on sudden solitude 
How oft that fearful nm^stion will intrude I 



68 THE CORSAIR. ' 

" 'T^ras but an instant past* — and here he stood ! 

and now" — without the portal's porch she rush'd, 

And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 

Big — biigiit — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 

But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell! " 

For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 

We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 

O'er every feature of that still, pale face, 

Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase: 

The tcjidei- blue of that large loving eye 

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy. 

Til! — Oh, how far! it caught a glimpse of him, 

And tlien it flow'd — and plirensied seem'd to swim, 

Tliniugh those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 

With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 

" He's gone ;" against her heart tliat hand is driven, 

Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven ; 

She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 

The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 

But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 

" It is no dream — and I am desolate ! " 



From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 

Stern Conrad down, nor once he turned his head ; 

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 

Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 

His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep. 

That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep; 

And she — the dim and melancholy star, 

Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar. 

On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 

There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink ? 

Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 

Hij fate to chance, his projects to the wave : 

But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 

May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 

He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 

And sternly gathers all his might of mind: 

Again he hurries on — and as he hears 

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 

The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar; 

As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast. 

The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 

The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 

That mute adieu to those who stem the surge; 

And more than all, his blood-red flng aloft. 

He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 



THK CORSAIR. 69 

Fire ill his glance, and wildness in liis breast, 

He feels of all his former self possest ; 

He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 

The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 

There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 

The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 

Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 

Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view: 

For well had Conrad learu'd to curb the crowd, 

By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 

His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 

riial seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen: 

The solemn aspect and the high-born eye, 

Tliat checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 

All these he wieldrd to command assent; 

Hut where he wish'd to '.viii, so well unbent, 

That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 

And other's gifts show'd nieau beside his word, 

When echo'd to the heart as from his own 

Ilis deep yet tender melody of tone : 

But sucli was foreign to his wonted mood, 

lie cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; 

The evil passions of his youth had made 

Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 



Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands — " Are all prepared ?" 
" They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 
Wails but my chief " 

"My sword, and my capote." 
Soon firndy girded on, and lightly slung. 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung: 
" Call Fedro liere ! " He comes — and Conrad bend* 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
" Receive these tablets, and peruse with care. 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark: 
In tliree days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace bo thine ! " 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
Then to bis boat with )i!>.na;hty gc.-ture sprung. 
Flash'd ♦he dipt oars, and si^arkling with tlie stroke 
Around the waves jthosphoric* briiihtness broke; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, — 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how well the shij) her helm obeys. 
How gallant all her crew — and aeigns to praise. 



70 THE CORSAIR. 

His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 

Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn? 

Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 

And live a moment o'er the parting hour : 

She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 

Ah ! never loved he half so much as now I 

But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 

Again he mans himself and turns away ; 

Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 

And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends: 

Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 

And all that speaks atid aids the naval art ; 

They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 

To anxious eyes what hour is ever late .' 

Meantime the steady breeze serenely blew, 

And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew : 

Pass'd the high headlands of each chistering isle, 

To gain their port— long — long ere morning smile : 

And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 

Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 

Count they each sail— and mark how there supine 

The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 

Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 

And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie! 

bcrecn'd from espial by the jutting cape, 

That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 

Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 

Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 

While Ican'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 

And calmly talk'd— and yet he lalk'd of blood I 



CANTO THE SECOND. 
" Conosceste i dubiosi desiri?" — Dantb. 



In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast lo-night : * 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
When he shall firag the feUer'd Uovers home; 
This hat! he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word, - 

His sununon'd prows collect along the coast. 
And great r.he gatUeriug crews, and loud the boaat 



THli CORSAIR. 

Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Tlioiigli lar llie distant loe iliey thus despise; 
"fis but to sail- no doubt to-morrow's Sua 
Will see the Pirates bound— their haven won ! 
Meantime the wateh may slumber, it' they will, 
Nor only wake to war, imt dreuiuing kill, 
Tiioiigh'all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To tlcsh their growing valour on the Greek; 
Mow well such ileed becomes the turban'd brave— 
lo bare the sabre's edge before a slave 1 
Infest his dwelling— but forbear to slay, 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests tlie blow, 
lo keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Uevel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile; 
Fur .Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
.Vnd hoard their curses till the coast is clear. 



High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around— the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff— 
Torbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaflf, 
Tliough to the rest the sober berry's juice,^ 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use; 
The long chibouque's" dissolving cloud supply, 
Wliile dance the Almas' lo wild minstrelsy. 
1 he rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
lUii waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark: 
\nd revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugt:ed deep; 
Keasi there who can— nor combat till they must. 
And hss to conquest than to Korans trust; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
•Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boa»t. 



\\ ith cautioii> reverence from the outer gate, 
Slow stalks I Ik slave, wiiosc otlice there to wait, 
Uovss hi3 beia heud-his baud salutes the floor, 
Kre yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
" A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here— himself would lell the rest."' 
He took liie sign from bieyd's assenting eye, 
\nd led ihe iioly man in sileucfc ni^h. 
His arms were folded on his dark-grocn ve«t, 
Ui8 ste;^ wag feeble, and bis look depreat; 



71 



72 THE CORSAIR. 

Yet worn he seem'd of liardship more than years, • 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
'Yovv'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form kis loose long robe was thrown, 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone; 
Submissive, yet with sell-possession manu'd, 
He calmly met the. curious eyes that scann'd; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow 'd to speak. 

IV. 

" Whence com'st thou Dervise ?" 

" From the outlaw's den, 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when?" 
" From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chaiu*. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast. 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a lisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight ; 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
With thee— most mighty Pacha ! who can fear ?" 

" How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared, 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock to guard ? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?" 

" Pacha! the fetter'd captive's moaruing eye. 

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 

I only heard the reckless waters roar, 

Those waves that would not bejir me from the shore i 

I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 

Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 

And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers. 

Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 

This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 

They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 

Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 

That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 

The careless guard that did not see me fly, 

May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 

Pacha ! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 

Food for my hunger, vest from tossing waves : 

Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 

With all around! — now grant repose — release." 



THE CORSAIR. 73 

" Stay, Dervisc ! I have inori' to question — stay, 
I do coininaiul lliee — sit — -.lost hear? — obey! 
More 1 must ask, and food tiie slaves shall briag; 
Thou shait not pine wliero all arc banqueting; 
Tiie sup|)er done — pre|)are thee to rejily, 
Clearly and full — 1 love not mystery." 

'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man^ 

Who look'd not lovinf^ly on that Divan; 

Nor show'd high relibh for the baiKjuet prest, 

And less res])eet for every fellow guest. 

'Twas hu a moment's pcevihh hictic past 

Along his cheek, and traiupiillised as fast : 

lie sate him down in silence, and his look 

Resumed the calmness which before forsook: 

Tiie feast was usher'd in — l)ut sumptuous fare 

lie shiinn'd as if some poison mingled there. 

I'or one so long condeinn'il to toil and fast, ,- 

Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 

" What ails thee, Dervir.e ? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ? that s.icred pledge, 
'\\hich, once ])artaken, blunts the sabre's edge. 
Makes even contending triiics in peace unite. 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight !" 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, tny drink the simplest rill; 
And my stern vow and order'*!' laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aughi to dread, 
Tiiat ])erii rests upon my single head ; 
liut fir thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
1 taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

" Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 

One question answer ; then in peace depart. 

How many? — 11a ! it cannot sure be day? 

What star — what stm is bursting on the bay ? 

It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 

llo! treachery! my guards ! my scimitar! 

The galleys feed the tlames — and I afar ! 

Accursed Uervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 

Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now I* 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light. 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 



74 , THIi cons AIR. 

Up rose that Dervise- -not in saintly garb, 
But like a M'arrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and lore hfs robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray I 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite. 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below; 
The sliriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clasli, and shouts to swell- 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai \^^ 
He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made; 
He saw their terror— from his baldric drew 
His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
'Tis answer'd — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ; 
Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
And deem design had left me single here?" 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway, 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Completes his fury what their fear begun, 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 
The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, with rage, surpriw^ 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow. 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe I 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ;i' 
For now the Pirates pass'd the Haram gate. 
And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling — throws 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
' 'Tis well — but Scyd escapes — and he must die— 



Much hath been done — but more remains to do— 
Tlieir galleys blaze — why not their city too ." 



Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 

And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 

A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 

But sudden sunk — for on his ear tlie cry 

Of women struck, and like a deadly Knell 

Kiiork'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 

" Ob ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 

One female form — remember — ive have wives. 

On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 

Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 

I5ut still we spared— must spare the weaker prey. 

Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 

If at my word the helpless cease to live : 

Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 

Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 

He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 

Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 

Elis breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke, 

But still from room to room his way he broke. 

They search — they find — they save — with lusty arms 

Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 

Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 

With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 

So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 

And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 

But who is she ? ■whom Conrad's arms convey 

From recking pile and combat's wreck — away — 

Who but tlic love of him he dooms to bleed ? 

The Ilaram queen — hut still the slave of Seyd I 



Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare," 

Few words to re-assure the trembling fair ; 

For in that pause compassion snateh'd from war, 

The foe before retiring, fast and far, 

With wonder saw their footsteps impursued, 

First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 

This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 

Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew. 

And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 

The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 

Alia il Alia! Vr-ngcance swells the cry — 

Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die! 

And flnme for flame and blood for blood must tell. 

The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 



76 THE CORSAIR. 

When wrath returns to renovaterl strife, 

And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 

Conrad beheld the danger — he Ijeheld 

His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 

" One effort — one — to break the circling host !" 

They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost! 

Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 

Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 

Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 

Herani'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trarajHed o'er| 

But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 

And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 

His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 

Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 



But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 

And rank to rank, and hand to hand o))pose, 

Guhiare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 

Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 

By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 

And dried those tear? for life and fame that flow'd : 

And when that dark eyed lady, young Gulnare, 

Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair. 

Much did she marvel o'er the couriesy, 

That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 

'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'df 

Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 

The Facha woo'd as if he deem'd tiie slave 

Must seem delighted with the heart he gave : 

The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 

As if his homage were a woman's right. 

" Tlie wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain; 

Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 

If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 

The life — my loving lord remember'd not!'' 



And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
But gather'd breathing from the happier dead : 
Far from his band, and battling with a host 
That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain, 
And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 
But drop for drop, for Seyd's unghuted eye 
Would doom hin" ever dying — ne'er to dici 



THE CORSAIR. 77 

Can tins be he ? triiim pliant late she saw, 

When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 

'Tis he indeed — dis-arni'd hut undeprest, 

His sole regret tiie life he siill pos^est ; 

His wounds too slij^lit, thoiigii taken with that will, 

Which wouhl have kiss'd the hand that then could kiU. 

')h wore there none, of all the many given, 

To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven? 

Must he alone of all retain his Ijrcath, 

Who more than all had striven and struck for death? 

He deeply felt— what mortal hearts must feel, 

When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 

For crimes committed, and tire victor's threat 

( If linu'cring tortures to rejiay the debt — 

He dec; ly, darkly felt; but evil pride 

That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 

Still ill his storn and self-collected mien 

A conqueror's more than capiivo's air is seen. ,- 

Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, 

But few that saw — so calmly gazed around: 

Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 

Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 

The better warriors who beheld him near. 

Insulted not the foe who taught thesi fear; 

And the grim guards ihat to his durance led, 

In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 

The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there. 

To note how much the life yet left could bear; 

He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 

And promise feeling for liii^ wreiuh of pain : 

To-moriow — yea — to-mcrrow's evening sun 

Will linking see impalement's pangs begun, 

And rising with the wonted blush of morn 

Meho'd how well or ill those jiangs are borne. 

Of loruients this the longest and the worst. 

Which adds all other agony to thirst, 

That day by day death still forbears to slake. 

While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 

" Oh ! water — water!" — smiling Hate denies 

The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 

This was his doom : — the Leech, the guard were gOM^ 

And left proud Conrad felter'd and alone. 



'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of tlie mind, 
When all its elements convulsed — combined— 



78 THE coasAia. 

Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 

And gnashing witii impenitent Remorse; 

Tliat juggling fiend — who never spake before — 

But cries " I warn'd thee !" when the deed is o'er. 

Vaiu voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 

May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 

Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 

And, to itself, all — all that self reveals, 

No single passion, and no ruling thought 

That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; 

But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 

All rushing through their thousand avenues, 

Ambition's dreams expiring,^ove's regret, 

Endanger'd gloiy, life itself beset ; 

Tlie joy untasted, the contempt or hate 

'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate • 

Tlie hopeless past, the hasting future driven 

Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 

Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not 

So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 

Things light or lovely in their acted time, 

But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 

The withering sense of evil unreveal'd. 

Not cankering less because tlie more conceal'd — 

All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 

That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 

Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake. 

To snatch the mirror from the soul— and break. 

Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 

All— all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 

Each has some fear, and he who least betrays. 

The only hypocrite deserving praise : 

Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies ; 

But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 

So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 

lie halfway meets him should he menace near! 



lu the high chamber of liis highest tower 
Sate Conrad, fettcr'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame. 
His foe, if vanquish'd had but shared the same : — • 
Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he raann'd ; 
One thought alone he could not — dared not meet— 
" Oh, how these tirUngs will Medora greet ? " 
Then — only — then — his clanking hands he raised, 
And strained with rage the chain on which he gazed : 



TIIR COIIMAIR. 79 

But soon he found — or feign'd — or ilreain'd relief, 

And smiled in sclf-derision of his grief, 

" And now come torture when it will — or may 

More need of rest to nerve me for the day !" 

This s.iid, with langour to his mat he erept 

And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept* 

'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 

Far Conrad's plans matured, at once were done: 

And Havoc loathes so much Ihi; waste of time, 

Shr scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 

One hour beheld him since the tide he stenim'd — 

1 )isguiscd — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — condemn'd-^ 

A chii-f on land — an outlaw on the deep — 

IJesiroyiiig — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 

XII. 

lie slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 

Was hush'd so deep — Ah! happy, if in death! >- 

lie slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 

His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends: 

Is it soii^o seraph sent to grant him grace ? 

No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face! 

Us white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid. 

Lest th(; ray flash abruptly on the lid 

Of tl-.^. : :i.-ed eye. which opens but to pain. 

And jf in 'incloieo — out ouce may close again. 

T bat tbrfi!. with eye s-.^ fjarii, and check so fair; 

An! au!)ur'i waves of jjeiETn'd and 'oralded hair 

With shape of fair7,' lightness — nake.u fooV, 

"Wiat snines .'i'lve snow, and falls evi earth an mute— • 

Through guards and diu'.ncst nijr.ii oc-.t cap« It there; 

Ah ! rather ask what will not >v',!ran daie; 

Whom youth and pity lead like thee, liuiaar'.'.' 

Slie could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 

In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate guest, 

Siie left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 

\\ liich oft in sport adorned her hand t)efore — 

And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 

Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 

Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 

Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 

And chill and nodding at the turret door. 

They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no mores 

Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 

Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 

She giizcd in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 



dC THE COPSAIR. 

True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, 
And me and mme he spared from worse than woe: 
'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — • 
How heavily he sighs ! — lie starts — awakes !" 

He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 
His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 
He niov'd his hand — the grating of his chain 
Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
"What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
Metliinks, my jailor's face show's wond'rous fair 1" 

" Pirate ! thou knowest me not — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful baud. 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why- 
Yet net to hurt — 1 would not see thee die." 

" If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight ; 

Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 

But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine 1" 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 

Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 

That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 

And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles; 

And sometimes with the wisest and the best. 

Till even the scaffold'-'' echoes with their jest! 

Yet not ihe joy to which it seems akin — 

It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 

Whate'ei- it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 

A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 

And these bis accents had a sound of mirth, 

(Is if r,lie iast he could enjoy on earth ; 

Ifet 'gainst his ".atnre— -for through that short life, 

'ew t'ii';u{rht'- ^;ari ht. -.o spare irom c'loom and strife. 

•* torsair ! thy doom is namf d — Ci'. L ntve p(;we>; 

i'c -dothe the Pacha in his 'veaker hour. 

rViet ^vould I spare — nay more — woiid £,ave thee uovr, 

But 'his — time — hope — nor even th, ftrength ailow:; 

But lii I can, I will: at least, delay 

Tlie •ipn'f-nce that remits thee scarce a day. 

More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 

The vain n'lempt should bring but doom to both." 

'• Yes ! — loft: indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 
Or fali'n too low to fear a furthor fall : 



THK COKSAlll. 



81 



Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope, 

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope 

Unfit'to vanquish— shall I meanly fly, 

The one of all my hand that would not die ? 

Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 

Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs, 

My sole resources in the path I trod 

NVerc these — my hark — my sword— my love — my God I 

The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 

And Man hut works his will to lay me low. 

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 

Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 

It is enough- 1 breathe — and I can bear. 

My sword is sliakcu from the worthless hand 

Tliat might have better kept so true a brand; 

My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 

For her in sooth my voice would mount above: 

Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 

And this will break a heart so moie than kind, 

And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnare I 

Mine eve ne'er ask'd if others were so fair." 

" Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! 1 envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions — such as mine bath wrought." 

" Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

" My love stern Seyd's ! Oh— No— !^o— not my love- 
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt — I feel— love dwells with — with the free. 
I am a slave, a favour'd slave iit best, 
To share his splendour, and seem very blest! 
Oft must my soul the question undergo. 
Of — ' Dost thou love ?' and burn to answer ' No V 
Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain. 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He lakes the hand 1 give not — nor withhold — 
Its pulse nor check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold: 
And when resign'd, it drops :i lifeless weight 
From one I never loved eiiougb to hate. 
• No warmth those lips return by his imprest, 
Kod chill'd reniembraiici! bhudders o'er the rest. 



82 T[!E CORSAIR, 

Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
Tke change to hatred were at least to feel 
But still — he goes unmoura'd — returns unsought— 
And oft when present — absent from my thought 
Cr when reflection comes — and come it must — 
I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust 
I am his slave^-but, in despite of pride, 
'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 
Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
Or seek another and give mine release, 
But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 
Remember — captive 1 'tis to break thy chain 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe 
To give thee back to all endear'd below, 
Who share such love as I can never know. 
Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 
'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to-day !* 

XV. 

She press'd his fotter'd fingers to her heart. 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart 

ind noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here? and is she now alone ? 

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain? 

The tear most sacred, shed for other's pain. 

That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's mine 

Already polish'd by the hand divine 1 

Oil ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 

(n woman's eye the unanswerable tear! 

Thai weapon of her weakness she can wield. 

To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 

Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs. 

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 

Yet be the soft triumvir's faidt forgiven 

By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven 1 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 

And seal their own to snare some wanton's woe, 

XVI. 

'Tis mom — and o'er his altered features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing. 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing, 
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt; 
Whi.'e sets that sun, the dews of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stitt'en'd limb 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 



THE CORSAIR. B3 

CANTO THE THIRD. 

" Come T«ili— aacor nsa m'abbandona." Dantb, 

I. 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 

Along Morea's hills the setting sun; 

Not, as in northeru climes, ohscnrely hright, 

lUit one unclouded blaze of living light ! 

O'er the hush'il deep the yeilosv beam he throws, 

Ciilils the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 

On old iEginu's rock, and Idra's isle, 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 

O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 

Tl'.ough there his altars arc no more divine. 

Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, uneouquiT'd Salamis ! 

Their azuro arches through the long expanse 

More deci)ly purpled meet his mellowing glance. 

And tenderest tints, along their sumunts driven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven j 

Till darkly shaded from the laud and deep, 

Behind Ids Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
AVhen — Alliens I here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
That closed their murder'd sage's''' latest day 1 
Nor yet — nor yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still; 
15ut sad his light to agonising eyes. 
And ilark the mountain's once ilcliglftful dyes: 
(;ioom o'er the lovely lanrl he scem'd to pour, 
The land, where I'hoebus never frown'd before; 
But ere he sank below CilliKrou's head, 
The cup of woe was quaff' d — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die I 

But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign." 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form; 
With cornice glimmering as ihc moon-beams play 
There the white colunm greets iier grateful ray. 
And, iH-ight around with quivering beams beset, 
Mer emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
Tlic groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
NA'hnrc meek Ccphisus ponrs his scanty tide. 
The cypress ?nddening by the sacred mosque 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,"* 



8* THE CORSAIR. 

And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless bf. 

Again the ^gean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental w*r ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown— where gentler ocean seems to smile. 

II. 
Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thte? 
Oh I who can look along thy native sea, 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, 
Fair Athens 1 could thine evening face forget ? 
Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
Spell-bouiul within the clustering Cyclades! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
His Corsiar's isle was once thine own domain — 
Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 

III. 
The sun hath snnk — and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height — 
Medora's heart — the third day's come and gone — 
With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storms were nonei 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens — she that day had pass'd 
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
She saw not; — felt not this — nor dared depart. 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense 1 

It came at last — a sad and siiatter'd boat, 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought; 
Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few- 
Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate . 



THE CORSAIR. bb 

SonuHhing they would have said ; but secm'd to fear 
To trust their accents to Medoia's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sunk nnt — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that lonehness of lot, 
NVilhin that meek fair form, were feelings high, 
That (ieem'd not till they found their energy. 
While yet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter'd — wept— 
All lost — that softness died not — but it slept; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 
" With nothing left to love — there's nought to dread." 
'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
Dcliiium gathers from the fever's heiglit. 

" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
Uhat — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well- 
Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 

" Lady 1 we know not — scarce with life we fled, 

But here is one denies that he is dead: 

He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 

She heard no further — 'twas In vain to strive — 

So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then withstoodj 

Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 

She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 

I'erchance but snatch'd her from another grave; 

But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 

They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies ; 

Uasli o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew. 

Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 

Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 

That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve; 

Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 

The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 



In that wild council words wax'd warm strange, 
\\ ith thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight : and still lingering there 
liiiMthed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
W luit'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led, 
'Vill save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe; to his foes 1 there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds arc daring, as their hearts arc true. 

V. 

Within the llaram's secret chamber sate 
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Cajjtive's fate; 
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell. 
Now with Gulnarc. and now in Conrad's cell ; 



86 THE COUSAIR. 

Here at his feet the lovely slave- reclined 

Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind; 

While many an anxious glance her large da-k eye 

Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 

His only bends in seeming o'er his beads," 

But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 

" Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest ! 
His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fate 
Was earn'd — yet much too •wortMcss for thy hate: 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord! 
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — • 
Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey; 
But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 

" Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 

Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem > 

It had not now redeem'd a single hour ; 

But that I know him fetter'd, in my power ; 

And, thirsting for revenge, 1 ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

" Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free: 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

" His capture could! — and shall I then resign 
One day to him — the wretch already mine? 
Release my foe !— at whose remonstrance ? — thine > 
Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 
That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
Which thee and thine alone of all could spare. 
No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 
My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 
I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 
I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
Borne in hii> arms through fire from yon Serai- 
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 



THE CORSAIR. 87 

Thou iiced'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks; 
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware: 
"J'is not /lii life alone may claim such care : 
Anotlicr word and — nay — I need no more. 
Accursed was the moment when he bore 
Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no— 
I tiieii bad mourn'd tlice with a lover's woe — 
Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing! 
Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 
In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 

Rage in bis eye and threats in his adieu : 

Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 

Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued;* , 

And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare! 

Wiien soft could feel, and when incensed could dare, 

Ilis doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 

How deep the root from wlience compassion grew— 

She was a slave — from such may captives claim 

A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 

Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 

Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 

Again his rage repell'd — until arose * 

That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes! 

VI. 

Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 

Roll'd day and night — his soul could never tame — 

This fearful interval of doubt and dread. 

When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 

When every step that ccho'd by the gate 

Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 

When every voice that grated on his ear 

Might be the last that he could ever hear; 

Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 

Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 

'Twas worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 

That conflict, deadlier far than all before : 

Tlic heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 

Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail; 

But bound and fix'd in fctter'd solitude, 

To pine, the prey of every changing mood; 

To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 

Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 

Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 

To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 



88 THE CORSAIA. 

With not a fiuend to animate, and tell 

To other ears that death hecame thee well ; 

Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 

And hlot life's latest scene with calumny; 

Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, 

Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear j 

But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 

To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim ; 

The life thou leav'st below, denied above 

By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 

And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 

Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 

Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 

And govern pangs surpassing mortal paiu : 

And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill ? 

Since not to sink beneath is something still ! 

VII. 

The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — 

The second — third — and still she came not there; 

But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done 

Or else he had not seen another sun. 

The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 

Came storm and darkness in their mingling might* 

Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 

That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep; 

And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent. 

Roused by the roar of his own element ! 

Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 

And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 

Aud now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 

A long kno\^ n voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 

Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 

Shook o'er his turret-cell the tlinnder-cloud; 

Aiul flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 

To him more genial than the midnight star : 

Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain, 

And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 

He I'aised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 

One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 

His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 

The storm roU'd onward, and disdain'd to strike; 

Its peal wax'd fainter — ceas'd — he felt alone, 

As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan 

vm. 

The midnight pass'd — and to the massy dooi 

A light step came — it paused — it moved once more ; 

Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen. key : 

'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair shft ' 



THB CORSAIR. 89 

Wliate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And heauteous still as hermit's hope can paint; 
Yet.clianged since last within that cell she came, 
More pale her chtek, more tremulous her frame . 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
Which spoke hefore her accents — " Thou must diet 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 

" Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same: 
Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
Well have ] earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

" Why should I seek? because — Oh ! didst thou not 

Ke<lceni my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 

Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 

To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 

And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 

With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 

Bccatie — despite thy crimes — that heard is moved : 

It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd — l0Ted« 

Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 

Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 

Though fond as mine her bo^om, form more fair, 

I rusli through peril which she would not dare. 

If that thy heart to her's were truly dear, 

\Vere I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 

An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam! 

What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 

I5ut speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 

Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 

if thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free, 

Kc-ceive this poniard — rise — and follow me !" 

" Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread. 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit to fight ?" 

" Misdoubting Corsair 1 I have gain'd the guard, 

Uipc for revolt, and greedy for reward. 

A single word of mine removes that chain : 

Without some aid how here coiiM I remain? 

Weli, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 

if in auglit e\'il, for ':J;v sake the crime: 

The crime — 'tis not;'.' ic- puuish those of Seyd. 

That hated tyrant, Courac — he must t)ieed{ 

I see the shudder — but my soui is changed — 

Wrong'd, spum'd, reviled — and U shall be avenged-^ 



90 



THK CORSAIR. 



Accusea of what till now my heart disdain'd — 

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 

Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 

I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear: 

But he has said it — and the jealous well. 

Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel. 

Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 

I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high— 

Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said, 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'Twas false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; ftut his dotage stili 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly wiii ■. 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 

There yawnb ihp sack — and yonder rolls the sea* 

What, am I then a toy for 'Jotard's play 

To wear but till the gilding frets av, ay ." 

I saw thee — loved thee— owe thee all — wouia batfe 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife,) 

I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 

Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 

Oh ! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st not start, 

Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 

'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 

It points within the port a Mainote prow : 

But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 

There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor Seyd I*' 



" Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 
My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 
Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 
From earth with ruthless but with open hand 
And therefore came I, in my bark of war. 
To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 
Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
Thine saved I gladly. Lady, not for this — 
Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast t 
Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest !" 



■1 lit CI IKS A III. 

" Rest ! rest I by sunrise must tliy sinews shake, 

And thy limbs wntiie arimnd the ready stake. 

I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life — my love — niy hatred- a'.i below 

Are on this cast — Corsair! 'tis ' m i blo« '. 

Without it flight were idle — ho-A evade 

His sure pursuit ? my wronp*- 'oo nniepaio, 

My youth disgraced — the lo.if: Wr.i' "as'.ed yeart. 

One I'low shall cancel with :>i. fiiiiii^ fe>m' . 

Hut since the dagger suits iln-: irk* iha" nvand. 

I'll try the firmness of a fcrnaic hand. 

The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'cr 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 



She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 

But his glance followed far with eager eye; 

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 

His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 

Since bar andjjolt no more his steps preclude, 

He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 

'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 

That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 

He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 

Or shun that ray so indisftnct and weak ? 

Chance guides his steps— a freshness seems to bear 

Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 

He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 

Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 

Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 

Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing door 

Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 

With hasty step a figure outwarj past, 

Tlien paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis she at last I 

No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 

" Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill I" 

Again he look'd, the wildncss of her eye 

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully 

She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 

That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair; 

As if she late had bent her leaning head 

Above some object of lier doubt or dread. 

They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 

Its line was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 

Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis bloodl 



92 THE CORSAIR. 

X. 

He had seen battle— he had brooded lone 

O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshowil>. 

He had been tempted — chastened — and the chain 

Yet on his arms might ever there remain: 

But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 

From all his feelings in their inmost force — 

So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 

As now they froze before that purple stain. 

That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 

Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 

Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 

It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 



" 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair ! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
When once our sail forsakes this hated straifd." 



She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 

Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor; 

Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind; 

Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind I 

But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 

As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 

No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 

Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 

The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 

The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach 

And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd. 

Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; 

Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 

Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze hlew— 
How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah ! since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast. 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd ; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band. 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand; 



THE CORSAIR. IS 

He thought on her afar, nis lonely bride ; 
lie turn'd aiwl saw — Gulnare, the homicide I 

XIV. 

She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd, 
" Thou may'st forgive, though Alla's self detest. 
Rut for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ! spare me now I 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite 1 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt. 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 

XV. 

She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid ^ 

Thau her, though undesign'd, the wTetch he made ; 

But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 

Thoy bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 

Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 

The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 

Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 

A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 

Their little bark her men of watch descry, 

And ampler canvas woos the wind from high : 

She bears her down majestically near, 

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 

A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 

liooras harmless, hissing to the deep below. 

L'p rose keei:*Conrad from his silent trance, 

A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 

" 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again — 

I am not all deserted on the m^in !" 

They own the signal, answer to the hail, 

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 

" 'Tis Conrad! Conrad!" shouting from the deck. 

Command nor duty could their transport check! 

With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 

They view him mount once more his vessel's side; 

A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 

Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace, 

He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 

Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 

Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand. 

And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 

XVI. 

These greetings o'f-r, the feelings that o'erflow, 
Yet grieve to win him hack without a blow: 



94 THE COKSAIK. 

They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win ilieir way. 
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare; 
And her, at once above — beneatli her sex, 
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards [lerplex. 
To Conrad turns her faini imploring eye. 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast. 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 

XVII. 

This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ?— 

Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 

What she has done no tears can wash away, 

And heaven must punish on its angry day : 

But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her giult, 

For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt; ." 

And he was free ! — and she for him had given 

Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 

And now he turn'd him to that dark -eyed slave, 

Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 

Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and meek 

But varying oft the colour of her cheek 

To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 

That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 

He took that hand — it trembled — and his own 

Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 

" Gulnare !" — but she replied not — " dear Gulnare!" 

She raised her eye — her only answer there — 

At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 

If he had driven her from that resting-place. 

His had been more or less than mortal heart, 

But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 

Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 

His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 

Yet even Medora might forgive ihe kiss 

That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 

The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith— 

To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath. 

To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling 

As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ', 

XVIII. 

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
To them the lery rocks appear to smile ; 



THE CORSAIR. fft 

The liavcn hums with many a cheering sound, 

The beacons blaze their Wdnted stations round, 

The boats are darting o'er tlie curly bay, 

And !>|)oilive dolphins beini tliciu through the spray; 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 

Greets like the wt-lconie of his •.uneless beak 1 

Utiieath eacii lamp that through its lattice gleams, 

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 

Oh ! V. hat can sanctify the joys of home, 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 

XIX. 

The lights are high on bracon and from bower. 

And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: 

lie looks in vain — 'lis stiange — and all remark, 

Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 

'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 

Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 

With the lirst boat descends he for the shore, 

And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 

Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 

To bear him like an arrow to that height 

NVitb the first pause the resting rowers gave, 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 

S'.rivi's through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 

Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within : and all was night round. 
He knock'd and loudly — footstep nor reply, 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh; 
He knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Rflused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opi;ns — 'tis a well known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
lis lips are silent — twice his cwn essay'd, 
And fail'd to frame the questiou they delay'd ; 
lie siiatcli'd the lamp — its light will answer all— 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall, 
lie would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
Hut, glimmering through the dusky corridor, 
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold I 

XX. 

He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his Isokf 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
He gnzed — bow long we gaze despite of pain. 
And know, luit dare not own, we gaze in vain! 



96 THE COKSAIR. 

In life itself she was so still and fair, 

That death with gentler aspect wither'd there : 

And the cold flowers'^ her colder hand contain'd, 

In that last gasp as tenderly were strain'd 

As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 

And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 

The long dark lashes fringed her lips of snow, 

And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below- 

Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 

And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ; 

Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse. 

But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 

Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 

And wish'd repose — but only for a while : 

But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 

Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 

Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 

Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind; 

These — and the pale pure cheelc, became the bier— 

But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 

XXI. 

He ask'd no question — a^' were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
The only living thing he could not hate, 
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, 
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar t 
The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
But who in patience parts with all delight ? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost. 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

XXII. 

By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 

The indistinctness of the suflfering breast ; 

Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 

Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 

No words suffice the secret soul to show, 

For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 

On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 

And stupor almost luU'd it into rest ; 

So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 

To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept i 



THK CORSAIIi. 97 

It was tlie very weakness of his brain, 
Which thin confessM without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless — broketiness of heart: 
The sun goes forth — hut Conrad's day is dim ; 
And the night coineth — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is r,o darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — noi will endure a guide ! 

XXIII. 

ilis heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong; 

IJetray'd too early, and beguiled too long: 

Each feeling pure — as falls the drojjping dew 

Within the grot; like that had harden'd too; 

Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, i 

Hut sunk, and chillM, and petrified at last. 

Yet t< mpests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock. 

If such his heart, so shattcr'd it the shock. 

There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 

Thniigh dark the shade^t shelter'd — saved till now. 

The thunder came — tlie bolt bath blasted both, 

The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth : 

The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 

lis tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell ; 

And of its cold protector, blacken round 

Hut shiver'd fragments on the barren ground! 

XXIV. 

'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 

I'ew dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 

He was not there — nor seen along the shore; 

Ere night, alarm'd their isle is traversed o'er ; 

Another morn — another bids them seek, 

And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 

Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 

They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 

Tlieir hopes revive — they follow o'er the main. 

'lis irlle all — moons roll on moons away, 

And Conrad comes not — came not since that day: 

Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 

Where lives his ,i<rief, or perish'd his despair! 

Long mourn'd his hand whom none could mourn beside? 

.\iid fair the monument they gave his bride : 

For him they raise not the recording stone — 

Iliii death yet dubious, deeds too widely known; 

He left a Corsair's*iame to other times, 

Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 



lARA; 

A TALE. 



CANTO THE FIRST; 



I. 

The Serfs^ are glad through Lara's wide domain, 

And slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 

He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord. 

The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored : 

There he bright faces in the busy hall, 

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 

Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 

The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 

And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 

With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirtli. 

II. 
The chief of Lara is returned again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself ; — that heritage of woe, 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest! — 
With none to check and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime; 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 

III. 
And Lara left in youth his father-land ; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'Tvvas all they knew that Lara was not there ; 
Nor seni, nor ciinie he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in tli(i,niaiiy, anxious in the few. 



99 



His ball scarce echoes with )iis wonted name, 
llis portrait darkens in its fading frame, 
Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
" Yet doth he live 1" exclaims the impatient heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 

He conies at last in sudden loneliness, 

And whence they know not, why they need not gueil |! 

They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er. 

Not that he came, but came not long before: 

No train is his beyond a single page, 

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 

Years bad roll'd on, and fast they speed away 

To those that wander as to those that stay ; 

But lack of tidings from another clime 

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 

They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 

Tiie present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime. 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by timei 
llis faults, whate'cr they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
And such, if not yet hardeu'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 

V. 

And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly seen, 

W'hate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been : 

That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last. 

And spake of passions, but of passion past : 

The pride, but not the fire, of early days. 

Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 

A high demeanour, and a glance that took 

Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 

And that sarcastic levity of tongue. 

The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 

That darts in seeming playfulness around, 

And makes those feel that will not own the wound; 

All these seem'd his, and something more beneath, 

Thau glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 



100 LARA. 

Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, 
That some can conquer, and Uiat all would claim, 
Within his breast appear'd no more to strive,. 
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive; 
And some deep feeling it vrere vain to trace 
At moments lighten'd o'er his hvid face. 

VI. 

Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of vrondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — unknownj 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show. 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew. 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 

vn. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
Born of high lineage, link'd in high "command, 
He mingled vf ith the Magnates of his land ; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away; 
But still he only saw, and did not share. 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued, 
With hope still bafHed still to be renew'd ; 
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone: 
Upon his eye sat something of reproof, 
That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd 
They deem'd him better than his air express'd. 

VIII. 

'Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried — heransack'd all below. 
And found his recompense in joy or woe. 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that iatenseness an escape from thought : 



LARA. 10] 

The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On tliat the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had lookM on hii^h, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt hevond the sky: 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream? 
Alas! he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 

TX. 

Books, for his volume heretoforo. was Man, 

With eye more ourious he appear'd to scan. 

And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day. 

From all communion he would start away : 

And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, 

Through night's long hours would sound his hurried tread 

O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 

In rude but antique portraiture around : 

They heard, but whisper'd— " that must not be known — 

The sound of words less earthly than his own. 

Ves, they who choose might smile, but some had seen 

They scarce knew what, but qjore than should have been. 

Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 

Wliicli hands profane had gather'd from the dead, 

That still beside his open'd volume lay, 

As if to startle all save liim away ? 

Why sU-pt he not when others were at rest ? 

Why heard no music, and received no guest.' 

All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong? 

Some knew perchance— but 'twere a tale too long; 

And such besides were too discreetly wise, 

To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; 

But if thev would — they could" — around the boara, 

Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 



It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they glide like happiness away; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky : 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 

And innocence would offer to her love. 

Tlicse deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there ; 



102 LARA. 

Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, ou such a night 1 

It was amomera only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, aar lunger there he stood. 

But turn'd in sileuce to his castle-gate : 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now- 

No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like tills, 

A night of beauty, raock'd such breast as his. 

XI. 

He turn'd within his solitary hall, 

And his high shadow- shot along the wall: 

There were the painted forms of other times, 

'Twos ail tliey left of virtue or of crimes. 

Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 

That hid their dust, their foibles, and tleir faults; 

And half a coluniit of the pompous page, 

Tiiat speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 

Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 

And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 

He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 

Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone. 

And the high fretted roof, and saints that there 

O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer. 

Reflected iu fantastic figures grew, 

Like like, but not like mortal life, to view ; 

His br)?-Ji!iif locks of sable, brow of gloom. 

And tlu* wiiie waving of his shaken plume. 

Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 

His aspect all that terror givca the grave. 

XII. 

'Twas midiiight — all was slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd iu the lamp, as loth to break the uight. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heaid in I^ara's hall — 
A sound — a voice— a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to savej 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

XIII. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid. 
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd. 



lARA, 103 

Was Lara strctcIiM ; his haU'-drawn sabre near, 

iJropp'd It slii>uld seem in more tlian nature's fear; 

\et Le was firm, or had beefi firm tijl now, 

And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 

Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 

There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 

Some balf.form'd threat in utterance there had died, 

some imprecation of despairing pride ; 

liis eje was almost seal'd, but not forsook 

Lvcn in its trance the gladiator's look, 

Thai oft awake bis aspect could disclose, 

Anci now was fix'd in horrible repose, 

Tliey raise him— bear him ;— hush ! he breathes, he apcaklL 

The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, r— » 

}Iis lip resumes Us red, his eye, though dim, 

Robs wide and wild, each slowly quivering Jimb 

Uecallsits function, but his words are strung 

In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 

Distinct but strange, enough they understand 

To deem them accents of another land; 

And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 

That hears him not— alas ! that cannot heur I 

His page approach'd, and he alone appeaPd 

To know the import of the words they heard ; 

And, by the changes of his cheek and' bro\?, 

They were not such as Lara should avow, 

Nor he interpret, — yet with less surprise 

Than those around their chieftain's state be ajtt, 

iUu Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 

And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, 

And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 

To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 

If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 

A breast that needed not ideal woe. 

XV. 

Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld. 

It yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd. 

Rests at his heart : the custom'd morning came, 

And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame; 

And solace sought he none from priest or leecn, 

And soon the same in movement and in speech 

As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours,— 

^or less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers. 

Than these were wont : and if the coming night 

Apptar'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 

He to his marvelling vassals sliow'd it not. 

Whose shuddering proved t/teir fear was Jess forgot. 



1U4 I.AR^ 

Iti trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl, 
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
The rustling tapestry, and the echouig tioor; 
The long dun shadows of surrounding trees. 
The flapping bat. the night song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening au.ddens o'er the dark grey walls. 

XVI. 

Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravelled gloom 

Came not a^^aiK,. o; Li.ra could assume 

A. seeming jI ior)/);tfulneas, that made 

His vassals more aiaa'icd c.ir ls*s afraid — • 

Had memory vaiusli'd tfaiu wi»h w.i'.^c. restored ? 

Since word, nor look, uor gesture of uicir lord 

IJetray d a feeling thii rifiall'd to tliese 

That fever' d moment of his mind's disease. 

Was it a dream .' was lu3 the voice that spoke 

Those strange wild acceuis ; his i):€ <rv that broke 

Their slumber ? his the oppress'd, o'edabour'd heart 

T hat ceased to beat, the look that madr, imu start i 

Could he who thus had suffer'd so forget, 

When such as saw that sutfering shudder yet. 

Or did that silence prove his memory hx'd 

Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 

In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 

The heart to show the elfect, but not the cause 

iSot so in him ; his breast had buried both. 

Nor common gazers csuld discern the growth 

Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half lold ; 

They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 

XVII. 

In him inexplicably mix'd appear' 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot. 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 

Uii silencr foru;'d a theme for others' prate — 

They guess'd — they gazed — they lain would know hia fate. 

What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 

Who walk'd their world, his lineai^e only known ? 

A hacer of his kind .' yet some would say, 

With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ! 

But owned that smile, if ott obse'-ved and near, 

Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer : 

That smile might reach his tip, but pass'd not by. 

None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 

Yet there was softness too in his regard, 

At times, a nciurt as not by nature hard 



106 



But once perceived, his spirit seemed to chide 

Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 

A.ud steel'd iisclf as scorning to redeem 

One doubt from others' half withheld esteem ; 

la self-inflicted penance of a breast 

Which tenderness migltt once liave wrung from rect 

la vigilance of grief that would compel 

The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

XVIII. 

There was in him a vital scorn of all : 

As if the worst had fall'u which could befall, 

He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 

An erring spirit from another hurl'd, 

A thing of darlc imaginings, that shaped 

By choice the perils he, by chance escaped ; 

liut scap'd in vain, for in their memory yet 

His mind would half exult and half regret : 

With more capacity for love than earth 

Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 

His early dreams of good outsthpp'd tlie truth, 

And troubled manhood foUow'd baffled youth; 

With thought of years in phantom chase misspeat, 

And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 

And fiery passions that had pom"'d their wrath 

In hurried desolation o'er his path, 

And left the better feelings ail at strife 

In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 

But haughty still, aad iuth himself to blame, 

He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame. 

And charged all faults upon the fleshy form 

She gave to clog tlie soul, lud feast the worm ; 

Till he at last confounded good and ill. 

And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 

Too high for common selfishness, he could 

At times resign his own for others' good 

But not in pity, not because he ought. 

But lu souic strange perversity of thought. 

That sway'd hiui onward with a secret pride 

To do what few or none would do beside ; 

And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 

Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar'd beyond, or suuk beneath, 

The men with whom he felt coudcuin'd to breathe* 

And long'd by good or ill to separate 

Himself from ail who shared his mortal state ; 

His mind abhorring this had u:i.'(i her throne 

Far from the wurld, in regioiis of her own; 

i'hus coldly passing all that pass'd bcio'-r. 

His blood lu temperaic sii: uing no^v vonld (Ic^t 



106 tARA. 

Ah S happier if it ne'er with guilt liad glow'd, 
But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 
'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd^ 
And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 
His madness was not of the head, but heart; 
And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
His thoughts 30 forth as to offend the view. 

XIX. 

With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
h was not love perchance — nor hate — nor augfc.t 
That words can image *.t express the thought ; 
But they who saw hin> did not see in vain, 
And once beheld, would ask of him again: 
And those to whom he spake rcniember'd well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell: 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but lie entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's miad; 
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
If greeted once ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew. 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breatt 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit secm'd tr> dare you to forget! 

XX. 

There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claim*, 
Appear — -a neighbour and a v/elcome guest 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumit'.cd hall, 
M'ell speeds alike the banquet and tiie ball; 
Ahd the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in h-ippiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingie there in well according bands; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And"*make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And youth forget such hour was past on earth. 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ' 

XXI. 

•Vnd Lara gar.ed on these, sedately glad, 
flis brow l)«lie(l lum if his soul was sad; 



107 



And his glance foI;ow'd fast each flutteriDg fair, 

Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 

He Ican'd ayiinst the lofty i)illar nigh, 

>^'iili folded arvni and longoUentive eye, 

Nor iiLii'd « glaiK'.e so sternly fix'd on his — 

111 hrooii'd high Lara scrutiny like this: 

At length he o.iii-^ht it — 'tis a face unknown, 

Ihit i^eems as seaicking liis, and his alone ; 

Prying anJ ditik, » .itrauger's hy his mien, 

Will) still lil! now hill' gazed on him unseen I 

At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 

Of keen ir.'^uiry, and of mute amaze; 

On Lara's glance ciuotion gathering grew, 

As if d'.strustmg tliat the stranger threw; 

Along the stranger's aspect, fix'd and stern, 

I'lash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 

XXII. 

" 'Tis he ! " the stranger cried, a'.wl those that heard 

Re-echoed fast and far tb': whisper'd word. 

" 'Tis he !" — " 'Tis who ?" they qnestion far and near 

Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear; 

?o widely spread, few hosoms well could brook 

The general marvel, or that single look : 

Bui Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 

That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 

Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 

Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed; 

And drawing nigh, o^claim'd, with haughty sneer, 

" 'Tis he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he here i*" 

XXIII. 

It were too much for Lara to pass by 

Such questions, so repeated fierce and high ; 

With look collectc'(L but with accent cold, 

More mildly firm than petulantly bold. 

He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 

" My name is Ijara ! — when thine own is known, 

Doubt not my fitting answei to requite 

The iinlook'd for courtesy of such a knight, 

'Tis Lara ! — further wouldst tl7T;u mark or ask ? 

I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 

" Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there noae 
Thy iicart must answer, though thine ear would shun? 
And (icem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again I 
At least thy metnory was nn' jirCA i,i vain. 
Oh ! uev<;r canst thou cancel liaif her debt, 
Eternity forbids thee to forget," 
With slow tTd searchini'; »'Uncf: up'.>a hia fac3 
Grew Lara s eyes, but noilimg tiiT-! .y.tild ^rac* 



108 LARA. 

They kneir, or chose to know — with duhions look 
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
And half-contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
But the stern stranger raotion'd him to stay. 
" A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer hers 
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer. 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 
But as thou wast and art, on thee look down, 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 

Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 

" Whate'er I b«^ 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his polish' d guest, 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd." 
And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
" Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the restj 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone, 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
I augur right of courage and of worth. 
He will not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord deny." 
" To morrow be it," E/.zelin replied, 
" And here our several worth and truth be tried : 
I gage my life, ray falchion to attest 
My words, so may I mingle with the blest !" 
What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk : 
The words of many, ai\d the eyes of all 
That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall { 
But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
In far forgetfulness away — away — 
Alas 1 that heedlessness of all around 
Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

" To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow !*' further word 
Than tho'je K'ptated nono fi on? Lara heard ; 



109 



Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 

From his large eye no flashing anger broke; 

Yet there, was something fixM in tliat low tone, 

Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 

He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd. 

And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 

And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 

With which that chieftain's brow would bear him downi 

It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 

That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 

But that of one in his own heart secure 

Of all that he would do or could endure. 

Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? 

Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 

Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 

For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 

From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 

Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 

XXV. 

And Lara call'd his page, and went his way- 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
His only follower from those climes afar. 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home: 
Those accents, as his native mountain dear. 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all: 
Fur him earth now disclosed no other guide; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 

Tbat brow whereon his native sun had sate, 

But had not niarr'd, though in his beams he grew, 

The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through 5 

Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 

All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 

But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 

That for a burning moment fever'd there; 

And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 

Fiom high, and lightcn'd with electric thought, 



10 LARA. 

Though its black orb those long low lashes fringe 
Had teuiper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share : 
And pleased not him the sports that please his ifg$p 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance. 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
His walk tiie M'ood, his sport some foreign book; 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook: 
He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
Flora all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVII. 

If aught he loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown 

His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 

In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 

Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 

Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile handi, 

In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 

As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his loid, 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 

To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more. 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 

But ne'er to mingle with the menial train. 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain. 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew : 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem ; 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Cf higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays. 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheeky 

But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame : 

True, in his words, it broke not from his breast, 

But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 

Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 

A.nother ere he left his mountain-shore ; 



Ill 



For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

Tint name repeated loud without reply, 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 

Start to the sound, as but reraemher'd then ; 

Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 

For then, ear, eyes and heart would all awak*. 

XXVIII. 

lie had look'd down upon the festive hall, 

And roark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all { 

And when the crowd around and near him told 

Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 

Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Such insult from a stranger, doul)ly sore, 

The colour of young Kaled went and came, 

The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame; 

And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 

The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 

That rises as the busy bosom sinks 

With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 

Yes — there be things which we must dream and dard 

And execute ere thought be half aware : 

Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 

To seal his lip, hut agonise his brow. 

He gazed on Ezzclin till Lara cast 

That sidelong smile upon the knight he past : 

When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 

As if on something recognised right well ; 

His memory read in such a meaning more 

Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 

Forward he sprung — a moment both were gone. 

And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 

Each had so fixed his eye on Lara's mien, 

All had so inix'd their feelings with that scene. 

That when his long dark shadow through the porck 

No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 

Kach pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 

To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 

Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 

Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 

And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 

With thoughtful visage and imperious air 

liut long remain'd not : ere an hour expired 

He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
The courteous host, and all-approving guest. 
Again to that accustoin'd coiich must creep 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 



112 LABA. 

And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife, 

Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life: 

There lies love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile* 

Hate's working brain, and luU'd ambition's wile; 

O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 

And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 

What better name may slumber's bed become ? 

Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 

Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 

AUke in naked helplessness recline ; 

Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 

Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 

And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, 

That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 
I. 

Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains cvl'd 

Melt into mom, and Light awakes the world. 

Man has another day to swell the past, 

And lead him near to little, but his last : 

But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 

The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 

Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 

Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 

Immortal man ; behold her glories shine. 

And cry, exulting inly, " They are thine !" 

Gaze on, whUe yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 

A morrow comes when they are not for thee : 

And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 

Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 

Nor cloud snail gather more, nor leaf shall fall. 

Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all; 

But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 

And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil. 

II. 
'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call; 
'Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold. 
And whatso'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
To meet it io the eye of man and heaven. 



113 



Why comes he not ? Such truths to be divulged, 
Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

III. 

Tlie hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
Why conies not Eizelin ? The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ercast. 
" I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet be be on earth, expect him here: 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Uctween my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
Hut that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged hiiu to prepare against to-day ; 
Tlio word I pledged for his 1 pledge again, 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 

He ceased — and Lara answer'd, " I am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 

Whose words already might my heart have wrang, 

But that, I deem'd him scarcely less than mad. 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I know him not — but me it seems he knew 

III lands where — but I must not trifle too: 

I'roduce this babbler— or redeem the pledge ; 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
Ills glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 
With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom. 
However near his own or other's torab ; 
With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 
Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 
Willi eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 
Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 
In vain the circling chieftains round them closed 
For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 
And from hia lip those words of insult fell— 
His sword is good vrho can maintain them welL 

IV. 

Short was tne conflict ; furious, blindly rash. 
Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 
Stretch a oy a dexterous sleight along the grouud. 



114 LARA. 

*' Demand thy life !" He answer'd not : and then 

From that red floor he ne'er had risea again, 

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 

Ahnost to blackness in its demon hue ; 

And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 

Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow j 

Then all was stern coUectedness and art, 

Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheldp 

He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those. 

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 

Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 

As if to search how l"ar the wound he gave 

Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech; 
The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
And he, incensed, and heedless of them all, 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
He back'd his steed, his homeword path he took» 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 



But where was he ? that meteor of a night, 
Who menaced but to disappear with light. 
Where was this Ezzclin ? who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 
He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distress'dl 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
m dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass. 
Which still retains a mark where murder was : 
Nor dabbling fingers left to teli the tale. 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 



lib 



When ngonised hands that cease to gnaid, 
Woitml 111 that pang llie sniooihiiess uf the sward. 
Some sucli had been, if here a life was reft, 
llui tliese were not; and douluing hope is left; 
And stiaiige sus[)icioii, whispering Lara's name, 
Now daily inutn.'rs o'er his hiacken'd fame; 
Then sudden siloiit when his form ap[)ear'd, 
Awaits the ahhcnco of the thing it fear'd 
Again its wonted wondering to renew. 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

VII. 

Days roil along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 

But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd : 

He was a man of power, and Lara's foe. 

The friend of all who sought to work him woe. 

And from his country's justice now demands 

Account of Ezzelia at Lara's hands. 

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 

His presence ? who liad made him disappear, 

If not the man on whom his menaced charge 

Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 

The general rumour ignorantly loud, 

The mystery dearest to the curious crowd : 

The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 

To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 

The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd. 

The skill witli which he wielded his keen blade; 

Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art? 

Where had that lierceness grown upon his heart? 

For it was uoi the blind capricious rage 

A word can kiadio and a word assuage; 

But the deep working of a soul unmix'ti 

With aught of pity wliere its wrath had fix'd ; 

Such as long power and oveigorgcd success 

Concentrates into all that's merciless: 

These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 

Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 

'Gainst Lara gathering rui.^cd at Ici.gsU a storm, 

Such as hiiuscvf might fear, and foes would fornix 

And he must answer for the absent head 

Uf one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 

VIII. 

Withiv. that land was many a malcontent. 
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent; 
That soil full many a wringing desi)otsaw, 
Who work'd his wantomiess in form of law; 
Long war without and frequent broil within 
Hud made a j)atl: for blood and giant sin. 
That wailed but a si!;iiiil to bCf^in 



116 LARA. 

New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friendi; 

Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 

In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd, 

Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 

And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands { 

But that long absence from his native chme 

Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 

And now, diverted by his milder sway. 

All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 

The menials felt their usual awe alone, 

liut more for him than them that fear was grown. 

They dcem'd liiin now unhappy, though at first 

Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst. 

And each long restless night, and silent mood, 

Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 

G loom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 

From thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 

For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 

Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 

The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye : 

Much he would speak not, but beneath his rool 

They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 

And they who watch'd might mark that, day by djjr. 

Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 

But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 

lie play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host: 

Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 

Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; ., 

Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 

With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 

If this were policy, so far 'twas lound, 

The million judged but of him as they found ; 

From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 

They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 

By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 

And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 

With him old avarice found his hoard secure^ 

With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 

Youth, present cheer and promised recompeoss 

Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence *, 

To hate he offer'd, with the coming change, 

The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 

To love, long baffled by the unequal match, , 

The well-woin charms success was sure- to snatch* 

All now was ripe, he waits but tu proclaim 

That slavery notiiing which vrus still a name. 

The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 

Secure at last the vengeance which he sought: 



117 



His suiiinions found the destined criminal 
Higii I by thousands in his swarming hall, 
Frcsli from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven, 
Tliat morn he had freed tho soil-bound slaves 
\\\\o dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right: 
Ucligion — freedora — vengeance — what you will, 
A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 
riiat guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed I 

IX. 

Tiiroujhout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain''d 

Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd ; 

Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth. 

The Serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both : 

Tliey waited but a leader, and they found 

One to their cause inseparably bound; 

\'<\ circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 

h' self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 

(. ui off by some mysterious fate from those 

Whom birth and nature meant not for his foei. 

Had Larsi from that night, to him accurst, 

Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 

Some reason urged, whate'er it was to shun 

Inquiry into deeds at distance done; 

iJy mingling with his own tlie cause of all 

E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 

The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 

The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 

!{i)uscd by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 

His gloomy forluies to their ultaost verge, 

liurst forth, and made him all he once bad been. 

And if again ; he only changed the scene. 

Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 

IJut not less fitted for the desperate game : 

He (Icem'd himself mark'd out for other's h?te, 

Ana mock'd at ruin so they shared bis fate. 

What tared lie for the freedom of the crowd? 

He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 

He had hoped qdiet in his sullen lair. 

Hut <u2r! and destiny beset him there : 

Inured to hunters, he was found at bay; 

And they must kill they cannot snare the pttj. 

Stern, unambitious, silent, he bad been 

ilencefortli a calm spectator of life's scene; 

Uul dragg'd again u|H)n the arcnn, stood 

K leader not unequal to the feud ; 



118 z.AaA. 

In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 

What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 

The feast of vnltures, and the waste of Ufa? 

The varying fortune of each separate field, 

The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled vnall ? 

In tiiis Uie struggle was the same with all : 

Save that disieiuper'd passions lent their force 

In bitterness tliat banish'd all remorse. 

None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 

Tiie captive died upon the battle-plain : 

In either cause, one rage alone possess'd 

The enipir'^ of the alternate victor's breast; 

And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 

Deniu'd few were slain, while more remain'd to sl^y^ 

It was too late to check the wasting brand. 

And Desolation reap'd the faniish'd hind; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 

And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 



Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strunft 

Tiie first success to Tiara's numbers clung: 

Rut that vain victory hath ruin'd all ; 

Thoy form no longer to their leader's call: 

In blind confusion on the foe they prest. 

And tjjiiik to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of l)0oty, and the thirst of hate, 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 

In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 

To check ilie headlong fury of that crew; 

In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, 

The hand that kindles cannot quench tine flame; 

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood. 

And shown their rashness to that erring brood: 

The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade. 

The daily harass, and the fight delay'd. 

The long privation of the hoped supply. 

The tentlcss re$t beneath the humid sky, 

The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer-'s art, 

And palls the patience of his baffled heart. 

Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 

They ciiuld encounter as a veteran may; 

But inDro preterr'd the fury of the strife, 

And present death, to hourly sufFcring life: 

And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 

His numbers nieliinsr fasi from their array: 



LARA. 119 

Intpmperate triumph fades to discontent, 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 
Hut k'w remain to aid liis voice and hand, 
A;mI thousands (hviiidled to a scanty band: 
Desp- rate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far. 
And thence they may escape from native war; 
And bear within tliem to the neighbouring state 
An exile's sorrows, or on outlaw's hate: 
Hard is the task their father-laud to quit, 
Uut harder still to perish or submit. 

xir. 
It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight: 
Alrca<ly they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; >" 

Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
A«ay ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters iii the rear ? 
'lis Otlui's banner — the pursuer's spear! 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height? 
Alas ! tliey blaze too widely for the flight: 
Cut ott" from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoill 

XIII. 

A moment's pause — 'tis but to breathe their band. 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by their bonier-stream their march oppose, 

'Die tew, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
however link'd to baflle such design. 
' 'i'he ciiarge be ours 1 to wait for their assault 
Wire (ate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Fijrth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
All! the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed: 
'.1 the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
ilow many shall but hear the voice of death ! 

XIV. 

II is blade is bared — in him there is an air 
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
A something of indilference more than thea 
flecnmes the bravest, if they feel for men. 
lb- tnm'<I bis eye on Killed, ever near, 
\M(i siiil loo faithful to betray one fear; 
I'rrchancr 'twas hut the moon's dim twilight thnw 
Vlnnii his aspect nn unwonied line 



120 LARA. 

Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his : 
It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not part! 
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee !" 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 
Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven 
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
"Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

XV. 

Commanding, aiding, animating all. 
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel. 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vaia 
But those that waver turn to smite again. 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow: 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone. 
He foils their ranks, or re-unites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly- 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest ? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast ! 
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 
And Death hath striken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
Ijut yet the sword instinctively retains. 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins ; 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless beudkng o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
Meantime hi* followers charge, and charge again I 
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 

xvr. 
Day glimmers on the djdng and the dead. 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
The wnr-horse masterless is on the earth, 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 



Zl 



And near, yet quivering with what life remam'd, 
Thfi heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panling thirst which scorches in the hreath 
Of those that<iie the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the hurning month to crave 
One drop— the last— to cool it for the grave ; 
With fechle and convulsive cfTiirt swept, 
Tlicir Jinil)s along the crimso:i'd turf have crept; 
The faint remains of life such strugirles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream, u^d Lend to taste ; 
They feel its freshness, and alitK--it partake — 
Why pause ? No furtlier thirst have they to slake— 
It is uiiquench'd, and yet they feel it not; 
It was an agony — but now forgot! 

XVII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 

Where but for him that strife had never been, 

A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 

'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away 

His follower once, and now his onlv guide. 

Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 

And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 

With each convulsion in a blacker gush ; 

And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

In feeblar, nor less fatal tricklings flow: 

He scarce can speak, but motions hlni 'tis vain, 

And nit;rely adds aiMrtlicr throb to pain. 

He clasps the hand Ihat pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page. 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees'; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim' 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. ' 

XVIII. 

The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field. 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yieid' 
They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from living hate: 
And Oiho comes, and leaping from his steed 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed 
And questions of his state he answi-rs not ' 

Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
And turns to Kaled :— each remaining word 
Thejr understood not, ifdis 



122 I,ARA, 

His dying tones are in that other tongue, 

To which some strange remembrance wildly ciung. 

They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 

To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'ri aloae ; 

And he replied, though fiiintly, to their sound, 

While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round: 

They seem'd even then — tkat twain unto — the last 

To half forget the present in the past ; 

To share between themselves some separate fate, 

Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their words though faint were many — from the tone 

Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 

From this, you might Ivsve deem'd young Kaled's death 

More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 

So sad, so deep, and hesk^ting broke 

The accents his scarce — moving pale lips spoke ; 

But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 

And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near: 

But from his visage little could we guess, 

So unrepentant, dark, and passionless. 

Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 

Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 

And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 

Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 

Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 

Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 

Or that 'twas cl'tance, or some remember'd scene, 

That raised his arm to point where such had been, 

Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 

As if his heart abhorr'd »hat coming day. 

And shrunk his glance before that morning light. 

To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 

Yet sense seem'd left, though better M'ere its loss; 

For when one near display'd the absolving cross. 

And proflfer'd to his touch the holy bead, 

Of which his parting soul might own the need, 

He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 

And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 'twere with disdaia : 

And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 

From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view. 

With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 

Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 

As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 

Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 

That life of Immortality, secure 

To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
And dull the film along his dim eye grew; 



i2i 



His limbs strctch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er 
The weak yet siill untiring knee tliat bore; 
lie press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
For that faint throb whicli answers not again. 
" It beats !" — Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone- 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet liad pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that Iramble clay ; 

And those around have roused him from his tranctt 

But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 

And when, in raising him from where he bore 

Within his arms the form that felt no more, 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 

Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 

He dill not dash himself thereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 

lint strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 

Than that he loved ! Oh 1 never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breathe ! 

That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 

The secret long and yet but half conceal'd 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 

Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd ; 

And lite return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 

M'liat now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 

XXII. 

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep; 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the *TH>^nd 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Vain w as all question ask'd her of the past, 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last; 
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she bvc him ? Curious fool ! — be still- 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 
To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Have deeper thouglus than your dull eyes discern, 
And when they love, your sinilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links, that forni'd the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain 



124 LARA. 

But that wild tale she brook'd not to uphold, 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war; 
Where'er had passed his summer years of life, 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strJie ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who mighi have sjoke the past, 
Return'd no more — that night appoar'd his last. 

xsiv. 
Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale. 
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
A Serf, that rovf; betimes to thread the wood, 
And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow, 
Bent was his bead, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, * 

And some foreboding that it might be crime. 
Himself unheeded watch' d the stranger's coarse. 
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore, 
Heav'd up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore. 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, andseem'd to watch 
And still another hurried glance would snatch. 
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
As if even yet too much its surface shovv'd : 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
And slung them with a more than common care. 
Meantime the Surf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest ; 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again, but indistinct to view, 
And left the waters of a purple hue. 



125 



?iieu deeply ilisappear'd : the horsenian gazed 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 
And iiisiant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
His face was iuask'd~the features of the dead, 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzclin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he perish'd. Heaven receive his soul I 
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 

XXV. 

And Kaled— Lara— Ezzelin, are gone, 
Ahke without their monumental stone ! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had lje<« 
r.riel liad so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud; 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 
Her eve shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire ; 
But left to waste her weary moments there, 
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
Such as the busy' brain of Sorrow paints, 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints i 
And she would sit beneath the very tree 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wouad. 
Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
Then rising, start, and beckon hira to fly 
From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
Then seat her down upon some linden's root. 
And liide her visage with her meagre hani. 
Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
This could not last— she lies by him she love* 
Her tale unxold— her truth too dearly proted. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



ADVERTISEMENT, 

'' The grand army of the Turks (in 1715,) under the Prima 
Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the heart o[' the Morea, 
and to form the siege of Napoli di Komania, the most consider- 
able place in all that country', thought it best in the first place to 
attack Corinth, upon which they made several storms. The gar- 
rison being weakened, and the governor seeing it was impossible 
to hold out against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat a parley ; 
but while they were treating about the articles, one of the maga- 
zines in the Turkish camp, wherein they had six hundred barrels 
of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hundred 
men were killed ; which so enraged the infidels, that they would 
not grant any capitulatiob, but stormed the place with so much 
fury, that they took it, and put most of th» garrison with Signior 
Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio 
Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of war "— 
Hiitoryof the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 

In the year since Jesus died for men, 

Eighteen hundred years and ten, 

We were a gallant company, 

Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 

Oh ! but we went merrily ! 

We forded the river, and clomb the high hill, 

Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 

Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 

Whether we couch'd in our rough capote. 

On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 

Or stretched on the beach, or our saddles spread 

As a pillow beneath the resting head, 

Fresh we woke upon the morrow : 

All our thoughts and words had scope. 

We had health, and we had hope. 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
Some were those who counted beads. 
Some of mosque, and some of church, 

And some, *r I mis-say, of neither ; 
Yet through the \vide world might ye search, 

Nor find a motiier crew nor blither. 



THE 8IKGK OK CORINTS. 1S7 

But some arc dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scatter'd and alone, 
And some arc rebels on the hills* 

That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Where freodom still at moments rallies 
And pays in blood oppression's ills ; 

And some are in a far countree, 
And some all restlessly at home : 

But never more, oh ! never, we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily, 

And when tliey now fall drearily. 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the maiB* 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth, and through the air, 

A wild bird and a wanderer. 

'Tis this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay, 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — wilt thou follow me now, 

And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 

I. 

Many a vani»h'd year and age 

And tempest's breath, and l>attle's rage, 

Have swept o'er Corinth ! yet she stands, 

A fortress form'd to Free;lom's hands. 

The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shocki 

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock. 

The keystone of a land, which still, 

Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 

The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either s\de, 

As if their waters chafed to meet. 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timoleon's brother bled, 

Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 

Ai'iae from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all the slain 

Who perish'd there, be piled again, 

Zltai. rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-bke, through those clear skiet. 
Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, 

SVbich seems the very clouds to kiss. 



128 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 

II. 

On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spear* 
And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shinei 
Along the Moslem's leaguring lines ; 
And the dusk Sp^-hi's bands' advance 
Beneath each beardod pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide^as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
And there bis steed the Tartar wheels; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,* 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from *he wall, 
Which crumbles witJi the ponderous ball : 
And from that wall the foe replies. 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 

III. 
But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall. 
With deeper skill in war's black art. 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, aad deed to deed, 
Fast Spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail j 
Or where the battery guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable, 
Alighting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
The first and freshest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boasts 
To guide the follower o'er the field, 
To point the tube, the lance to wield. 
Or whirl around the bickering blade — 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 

IV. ^ 

From Venice — once a race of worth 
His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 



THB SIEGE or CORINTH. 

But late an eidle from her shore, 

Against his countr) men h«» i^ore 

The arms they taught to bear ; and now 

The turban girt his sliaven brow. 

Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 

With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 

And here, before her walls, with those 

To Greece and Venice equal foes, 

He stood a foe, with all the zeal 

Which young and fiery converts feel, 

Within whose heated bosom throngs 

The memory of a thousand wrongs. 

To him had Venice ceased to be 

Her ancient civic boast — " the Free;" 

And in the palace of St. Mark 

Unnamed accusers in the dark 

Within the *' Lion's mouth " had placed 

A charge against him uneffaced : 

He fled in time, and saved his life. 

To waste his future years in strife. 

That taught his land how great her Uss 

In him who trhimph'd o'er the Cress, 

'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent hi^ 

And battled to avenge or die. 

V. 

Coumourgi* — he whose closing scene 
Adorned the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
The last and mightiest of the slain, 
He sank, regretting not to die. 
But cursed the Christian's victory— 
Couraourgi — can his glory cease, 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred years have roU'd away 
Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway. 
And now he led the Mussulman, 
And gave the guidance of the van 
To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
By cities levell'd with the dust ; 
Aud proved, by many a deed of death 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 

VI. 

The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 
Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot. 
With niialmting fury sent 
From haiirry to I'litlnnciit 



130 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 

And thunder-like the pealing din 

Rose from each heated culverin : 

And here and there some crackling dome 

"Was fired before the exploding bomb : 

And as the fabric sank beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 

In red and wreathing colanins flash'd 

The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 

Or into countless meteors driven, 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 

Whose clouds that day grew doubly duji. 

Impervious to the hidden sun, 

With volumed smoke that slowly grew 

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 

VII. 

But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach: 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win, without consent 
Of that inexorable sire. 
Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 
Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
In happier mood and earlier time, 
While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 
Gayest in gondola or hall. 
He glitter'd through the Carnival; 
And tuned the softest serenade 
That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
At midnight to Italian maid. 

VIII. 

And many deem'd her heart was won; 
For sought by numbers, given to none, 
Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds unchain'd > 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail. 
And pensive wax'd the maid and pale i 
More constant at confessional, 
More rare at masque and festival ; 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyes. 
Which conquer'd liearta they ceased to prise 
With listless look she seems to gaze ; 
With humbler care hci form arrays ; 
Her voice less lively in the song; 
Her step, tiiougii light, less fleet »mong 



nil'. siKi.i; OK coiiiNTH. . 131 

The pairs, on whom the Mornings glanKe 
Breaks, yet unsatcd with the dance. 

IX. 

Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand^ 
While Sobipski tamed his pride 
By Buda's wall and Daniil)e's side, 
The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From I'atra to Euboia's bay,) 
Miiiotti Imld in Corinth's towers 
Tbe Doge's delegated powers, 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece: 
And ere that faithless ♦/■m- wr." ><roke 
Which freed hc» i.-,,-.n '.hi unchristian yoke> 
With him his gentle daughter came ; 
Nor there, since Menclaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love, 
Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger bore. 

X. 

The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
C'er the di*ir>intcd mass shall vault 
The foremost of the Serce assault. 
The bands arc rank'd; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of .Mussulman, 
The full of hope, inisnaiued " forlorn," 
Who bold the tliOueb' tif death in scorn, 
And win their way xi ;ili falcliion's force. 
Or pave the patb wiiii n.any a corse, 
O'er which the fuHuwi'is brave may rise, 
Th«'r stepp-rg stone — t'le last who dies!. 

XI. 

''{y> m.dnight on tbe mountains brown 
He '.old, round m'jon shines deeply downi 
VA'.i- rni, n.e waio'^j. blue the sky 
S,.rcd.l!i liKe nn i v.ean huii^ on high, 
Hpsoaugled v "Mi thoso l!?le^ of light, 
t>o «i'dl> ..piritually bright; 
Who e«ci ir.iii'd upon them shining 
And t^^l'd to csrth without repining, 
Nor wi^h'd for wings to flee away, 
Ana mix with their eternal ray .' 
The wavci on either shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as th*: airi 



13Z , THE SIEHK OF OORINTH. 

And scaree their foam the pebbles shook. 

But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 

The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 

The banners droop'd along their staves, 

And, as they fell around them furiing, 

Above them shone the crescent curling; 

And that deep silence was unbroke, 

Save where the walch his signal spoke, 

Save where the steed neigh 'd oft and shrill, 

And echo answer 'd from the hill. 

And tbu wUd (ni'ji of that wild host 

Rustle-^ like kaves from coast to coast, 

As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 

In niuVi'g'i;. call to wonted prayer ; 

It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 

LiVe seme lo'j'* Sf-irit's o'er the plain : 

'Tvas musical, !>!.i sadly sweet, 

Such as when stinds and harp-strings mecti 

And take a long unmeasured tone. 

To mortal minstrelsy unknown, 

It seem'd to those within the wall, 

A cry proph'Hic of their fall : 

It struck eveii thn besieger's ear 

With soiii'^thing ominous and drear, 

An un'.!f:Mnfii and sudden thrill. 

Which makes the heart a moment still, 

Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 

Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 

Such as a sudden passing bell 

Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 

XII. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 

The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er t 

The watch was set, the night-round madCt 

All mandates issued and obsy'd : 

'Tis but another anxious night, 

His pains the morrow may requite 

With all revenge and love can pay, 

In guerdon for their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter : but within his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters rolL 

He stood alone among the hostj 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o'er the croBli 

Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By lIo\)ns loved immortally: 



THK 8IKOE OF CORINTH 13S 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel 
The stern exaltedness of zeal, 
Profuse of tilood, untired in toil, 
When battling on the parent soil. 
He stood alone — a renegade 
Against the country he belray'd ; 
He stood alone amidst his band, 
Without a trusted heart or hand : 
They foliow'd him, for he was brave, 
And great the spoil he got and gave 
They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 
To warp and wield the vulgar will: 
But still his Christian origin 
With them was little less than sin. 
They envied even the faithless fame 
He earn'd beneath a Moslem name ; 
Since he, their mightiest chief had been 
In youth a bitter Nazarene. 
They did not know how pride can stoop, 
When baffled feelings withering droop ; 
They did not know how hate can bum 
In hearts once changed from soft to stem 
Nor all the false and fatal zeal 
The convert of revenge can feel. 
He ruled them — man may rule the won^ 
By ever daring to be first: 
So lions o'er the jackal sway; 
The jackal points, he fells the prey, 
Then on the vulgar yelling press, 
To gorge the relics of success. 

XIII. 

His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 

The quick successive throbs convulse : 

In vain from side to side throws 

His form, in courtship of repose; 

Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 

Awoke him with a sunken heart. 

The turban on his hot brow press'd, 

The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast. 

Thought oft and long beneath its weight 

Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 

Without or couch or canopy, 

Except a rougher field and sky 

Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 

Than now along the heaven was spread. 

He could not rest, he could not stay 

Within his tent to wait for day. 

But walk'd him forth along the sand, 

Where tiiousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 



134 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 

What pillow'fi {hem ? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be 
Since more their peril, worse their toil, 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIV. 

He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky, though calm. 
And bathed his brow with airy balm 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay 
Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
High and eternal, such as sTione 
Through thousand summers brightly gono 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime; 
It will not melt, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lighest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou haile«t, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud. 
In texture like a hovering shroud. 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 
And linger'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh ! still her step at mo*ments falters 
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars. 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token : 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember'd rays. 
Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

XV. 

Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes 
And through this night, as on he wander'd. 
And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
And thought upon the glorio»is dead 
Who tit re in better cause had bled. 



THK SIEOR or CORINTH. 135 

He felt how faint and feebly dim 

The fame that could accrue to him, 

Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword. 

A traitor in a turban 'd horde ; 

And led them to a lawless siege, 

Whose best success were sacrilege. 

Not so had those his fancy number'd, 

The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 

Their phalanx niarsliall'd on the plain. 

Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 

They fell devoted, but undying; 

The very gale their names seem'd sighing, 

The waters murmur'd of their name; 

The wood were peopled with their fame ; 

The silent pillar, lone and grey, 

Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 

Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky mountain, 

Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 

The meanest rill, the mightiest river 

RoU'd mingling with their fame for ever. 

Despite of every joke she bears, 

That land is glory's still and theirs ! 

'Tis still a watch-word to the earth : 

When man would do a deed of worth 

He points to Greece, and turns to tread. 

So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head; 

He looks to her, and rushes on 

Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

XVI. 

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 

And woo'd the freshness Night diffused. 

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. 

Which changeless rolls eternally ; 

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood. 

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood 

And the powerless moon beholds them How, 

Heedless if she come or go : 

Calm or high, in main or bay, 

On their course she hath no sw ay. 

The rock unworn its base doth bare, 

And looks o'er the surf, hut it comes not there; 

And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 

On the line that it left long ages ago : 

A smootli short space of yellow sand 

Between it and the greener land. 

He wandcr'd on, along the beach. 
Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
Of the Icaguer'd wall ; hut they saw him not, 
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 



136 TH£ SIEGE OF CORINTH. 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 

Were their hands grow stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? 

I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 

There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 

Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown. 

That fiank'd the sea-ward gate of the town : 

Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 

The sullen words of the sentinel, 

As his measured step on the stone below 

Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 

Hold o'er the dead their carnival. 

Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 

They were too busy to bark at him 1 

From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 

And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull,6 

As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew dull, 

As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; 

So well had they broken a lingering fast 

With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 

And Alp knew, by the turbans that roH'd on the sand, 

The foremost of these were the best of his band ; 

Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear. 

And each scalp had a single long tuft. of hair,^ 

All the rest was shaven and bare. 

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 

The hair was tangled round his jaw. 

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 

There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 

'Vho had stolen from the hills, but kept away. 

Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 

But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 

Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

XVII. 

Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : 

Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 

But he better could brook to behold the dying, 

Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 

Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 

Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 

There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 

Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 

For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 

And Honour's eye on daring deeds 1 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead. 

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air 

Beasts of the forest, all gathering there : 



Tim SlbUK UK COKINTB. \'gf 

All regarding man as their prey, 
All rejuicing in his decay 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion'd by long forgotten hands; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone, 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 

Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before ! 

Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 

Hut enough of the past for the future to grieve 

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which miut ht 

What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 

Remnants of tilings that have pass'd away, 

Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay 1 

XIX. 

He sate him down at a pillar's base, 

And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 

Like one in dreary musing mood, 

Declining was his attitude ; 

His head was drooping on his breast, 

Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd : 

And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 

Oft his beating fingers went, 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your Q\n\ run over the ivory key 

Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 

There he sate all heavily, 

As he heard the night-winds sigb. 

Was it the wind through some hollow stone,— 

Sent that soft and tender moan I 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blaot 

How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 

He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 

So did the leaves on Cithajron's hill, 

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; 

What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 

He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 

There s<ite a lady, youthful and bright I 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 
Then -f an armed foe were near. 
" God of my fathers! what is herd 
Who art Ihou, and wherefore sent 
So near a ho&tilc armament?' 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 

His trembling bands refused to sign 

Tlie cross he deem'd no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride I 

The rose was yet upon her cheek. 

But mellow'd with a tender streak 

Where was the play of her soft lips fled 

Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 

The ocean's calm within their view, 

Beside her eye had less of blue ; 

But lite that cold wave it stood still. 

And its glance, though clear, was chill. 

Around her form a thin robe twining, 

Nought conceal'd her bosom shining; 

Through the parting of her hair. 

Floating darkly downward there. 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 

And ere yet she made reply. 

Once she raised her hand on high ; 

It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shine thronglu 

XXI. 

" I come from my rest to him I love best, 

That I may be happy, and he may be bless'd. 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 

Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 

'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the Power on high, that can shield the good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood. 

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 

From the hands of the leaguring infidel. 

I come — and if I come in vain. 

Never, oh never, we meet again ! 

Thou hast none a fearful deed 

In falling away from thy father's creed : 

But dash that turban to earth, and sign 

The sign of the cross, and for ever be minei 

Wring the black drop from thy heart. 

And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

" And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
In the midst of the dying and the dead 
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 



THE StKGB UK CUllINTU. 139 

None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 

Shall 1)0 left upon the morn : 

But thee will I bear lo a lovely spot, 

Where our hands shall he join'd, and our sorrow forgot. 

There thou yet shall be my bride, 

When once again I've qiieli'd the priae 

Of Venice ; and her hated race 

Have fell the arm they would debase 

Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 

Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 

Anil shot a chillness to his heart. 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from his hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear. 

As those thin fingers, long and white. 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue. 

So deeply changed from what he knew : 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth without her breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 

And there secm'd not a pulse in her veins to dwelL 

Though her eye shone out, yet the Irds were fix'd, 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 

With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream; 

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, 

So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come dow 

From the shadowy wall where their images frowu ;* 

Feartully flitting to and fro. 

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 

*' If not for love of me be given 

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,— 

Agaui I say — that turban tear 

From off thy faithless brow, and swear 

Thine injured count iv's snns lo snare, 



140 THE s:i<;g& o corinth. 

Or thou art lost, and never shalt see — 
Not earth — that past — but heaven or me. 
If this thou dost accord, albeit 
A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 
That doom shall half absolve thy sin. 
And mercy's gate may receive thee within; 
But pause one moment more, and take 
The curse of him thou didst forsake ; 
And look once more to heaven, and see 
Its love for ever shut from thee. 
There is a light cloud by the moon — 
Tis passing, and will pass full soon^ 
If, by the time its vapoury sail 
Hath ceased ner shaded orb to veil. 
Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged ; • 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside^ 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

RoU'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He disraay'd 

By wild words of a timid maid ! 

He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave 1 

No — though that cloud were thunder's \Tontf 

And charged to crush him — let it burst 1 

He iook'd upon it earnestly 

Without an accent of reply ; 

He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 

Full on his eye the clear moon shone. 

And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 

I am no changeling — 'tis too late : 

The reed in storms may bow and qjuiver, 

Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 

What Venice made me, I must U., 

Her foe in all, save love thee : 

But thou art safe: oh, fly vrith me !" 

He turn'd, but she is gone 1 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 

He saw not — he knew not — but nothing is there. 

XXII. 

The night is past and shines the sun 
As if that ni«)r» were a jocund one. 



THE SIEGE OF CORIKTB. 141 

Lightly aid brightly breaks awny 

The Morning from her mantlo grey, 

And the Noon will look on a sultry day 

Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
And the iiioumful sound of the barbarous lioni, 
And ilii! flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
And the clash, and the shout, " They come ! they comcf 
The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for the word« 
Tartar, and Spahi. and Turcoman, 
Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
That the fugitive may flee in viiin, 
When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
While your feilov^'s on foot, in a fiery mass, 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit ; 
The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 
Alp at their head : his right arm is bare, 
So 18 the blade of his sciliutar ; 
The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
W'hen the culverin's signal is fired, then on; 
Leave not in Corinth a living one 
A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 
Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
" There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale; 
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye faili* 
III? who first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and harel" 
Thus uttcr'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier j 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous in :— 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 

XXIIl. 

As the wolves, that headlong go 

On the stately buffalo. 

Though with fierj- eyes, and angry roar, 

And hoofs' that stamp, and horns that gore, 

He trami>ks on earth, or tosses on high 

The foremost, who rush on his strengUi Ixitto diet 



142 THE SIEtiK OF CORINTH. 

Thus against the wall they went, 

Thus the first were hack ward bent ; 

Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 

Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 

Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 

The ground whereon they moved no more: ' 

Even as they fell, in files they lay, 

Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 

When his work is done on tlie levell'd plain 

Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 

XXIV. 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 
From the cliff's invading dash 
Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless ^ow. 
Till white and thundering down they go, 
Like the avalanche's snow 
On the Alpine vales below ; 
Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
Corinth's sons were downward borne 
■ By tlie long and oft reuew'd 
Charge of the Moslem multitude. 
In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
Heap'd, by the host cf the infidel. 
Hand to hanu, nud foot to foot: 
Nothing there, save death, w|s mute; 
Stroke, and thrust, and flas'i, and cry 
For quarter, or for victory. 
Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 
Which makes the distant cities wonder 
How the sounding battle goes. 
If with them, or for their foes; 
If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
In that annihilating voice, 

Which i)ierces tlie deep hills through and through 
With an echo dread and new : 
You might have heard it, on that day. 
O'er Salamis and Megara ; 
(We have heard the hearers say,) 
Even uuto Piraeus' bay. 

XXV. 

From the point of encountering blades to the biltf 

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 

But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun. 

And all liut tlic after carnage done. 

Shriller siirieks now min'j:linc: come 

From vvitliin tiie pluiider'd dome: 

Hark to the haste of flying feet, 

That s))las)) in the Oloo(( of the slippery. street | 



THE 8IKGV OK UORINTH. 14j 

But here and there, where 'vantage groand 
Against the foe may still be found, 
Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 
Make a pause, and turn again — 
With liandcd hacks against the wall, 
Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man — his hairs were whitt^ 

But his veteran arfu was full of might: 

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 

The dead before him, on that day, 

In a semicircle lay ; 

Still he coml)atcd uiiwounded, 

Thougi. icireating, unsuirounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

T>uik'd beneath his corslet bright; 

But of every wound his body bore, 

Each and cm nad been ta'en before : 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb. 

Few of our youth could cope with him ; 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 

Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver grey. 

From right to left bis sabre swept : 

Many an Othmaii mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 

His weapon first in Moslem gore, • 

Ere bis years could count a score. 

Of all he might liave been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire : 

For, sonless left long years ajo. 

His wrath made many a childless foe; 

And since the day, when in the strait' 

His only boy had met his fate, 

Ilis pareiii'!< iron hand did doom 

More thaii a humati liecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Thau his, Minotti's son, who died 

Where Asia's boimds ai^d ours divide. 

Buried he lay, where thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on tlie shon 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell ? 

Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves 

But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 

XXVI. 

Hark to the Allah shout ! a hand 

Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at liandt 

Their leader's neivous arm is bare. 

Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 



THE SIEGE or CORlNa'Ku 

Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them otti 
Thus in the fight is he ever known : 
Others a gaudier garh may show, * 

To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 
Many a hand's on a richer hilt, 
But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 
Many a loftier turban may wear, — 
Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there! 
There is not a standard on that shore 
So well advanced the ranks before; 
There is not a banner in Moslem war 
Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 
It glances like a falling star ! 
Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
The bravest be, or late have been; 
There the craven cries for quarter 
Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
Or the hero, siient lying, 
Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
Mustering his last feeble blow 
Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 
Though faint beneath the mutual v/ound, 
Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect, 
And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
" Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take, 
For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 

" Never, renegado, never 

Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 

" Franceses ! — Oh, my promised bride 
Must she too perish by thy pride ?" 

" She is safe." — " Where? where?" — " In heaven ^ 

From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 

Far from thee, and undefiled." 

Grimly then Minotti smiled, 

As he saw Alp staggering bow 

Before his words, as with a blow. 

" Oh God ! when died she ?"-— " Yesterniglit— 
Nor weep I for her spirit's flight ; 
None of my pure race shall be 
Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 
Come on 1" — That challenge is in vain- 
Alp's already with the slain ; 
While Minctti's words were wreaking 
More revenge in bitter speaking 



THK 8IKGE OF CORINTH. 

Than his falchion's point had found, 

Had the time allow'd to wound, 

From vfithin the neighbouring porch 

Of a long defended church, 

Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew, 

The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground. 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the brain of the infldCi, 

Round he spun, and down he fell; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Through all the palpitating trunk: 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering ; 

They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 

And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 

And through his lips the life-blood oozed. 

From its deep veins lately loosed ; 

But in his pulse there was no throb, 

Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 

Heralded his way to death : 

Ere his very thought could pray, 

Unaneled he pass'd awaj, ^ 

Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 

To the last— a Renegade. 

XXVIII. 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers, and his foes ; 

These in joy, in fury those; 

Then again in conflict mixing, 

Clashing swords, and spears transfiimgt 

Interchanged the blow and thrust. 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, and foot by foot. 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command ; 

With him, aiding heart and hand. 

The remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable, 

Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall. 

When Alp, her tierce assailant, fell s 

Thither bending sternly back. 

They leave before a bloody track ; 
And, with their faces to the foe. 
Dealing wounds with every blovr. 



14ft 



V 

146 THE 8IEGE OF CORINTH. 

The chief, and his retreating train, 
Join to those within the fane; 
Tliere they yet may breathe awhile, 
Shelter' d by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host, 

With adding ranks and raging boast. 

Press onwards with such strength and heat, 

Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 

For narrow the way that led to tlie spot 

Where still the Christians yielded not ; 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die ; but ere their eyes could close. 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still; 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still rencw'd attacks ; 

And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 

Still resists its iron weight, 

And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot ; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower ; 

But the portal wavering grows and weak— 

The iron yields, the hinges creak — 

It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 

Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 

Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 

Madonna's face upon him shone. 

Painted in heavenly hues above. 

With eyes of light and looks of love ; 

And placed upon that holy shrine 

To fix our thoughts on things divine, 

When pictured there, we kneeling see 

Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 

Smiling sweetly on each prayer 

T^ heaven, as if to waft it there. 

Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 

Though slaughter streams along her aisles ; 

Minotti lifted his aged eye, 

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 

Xhen seized a torch which blazed thereby; 

And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 

In%vard and onward the Mussulman came, 



THK 8IKGB OF CORINTH. 147 



The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor, 

But now illegible with gore ; 

The carved crests, and curious hues 

The varied marble veins diffuse, 

Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd and stroW9 

With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffin'd row ; 

You might see them piled in sable state 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 

But War had enter'd their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the fleshless dead : 

Here, throughout the siege, had beea 
The Chtistiaus' chiefest magazine; 

To these a late form'd train now led, 

Minotti's last and stern resource 

Against the foe's o'erwhelmiug force. 



The foe came on, and few remain 

To strive, and those must strive in vain : 

For lack of further lives, to slake 

The thirst of vengeance now awake. 

With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 

Aud lop the already lifeless head. 

And fell the statues from their niche. 

And spoil the shrines of offerings rich. 

And from each other's rude hands wrest, 

The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 

To the high altar on they go ; 

Oh, but it made a glorious show 1 

On its table still behold 

The cup of consecrated gold ; 

Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 

Brightly it sparkles to plunderer's eyes *, 

That morn it held the only wine. 

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine. 

Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, 

To shrive their souls ere they join'd iB the fray. 

Still a few drops within it lay ; 

And round the sacred table glow 

Twelve lofty lamps, in splendiU row. 

From the purest metal cast ; 

A spoil — the richest, and the last. 



148 THE SIEGE OF CORINTB. 



So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach' d, 

When Old Minotti's hand , 

Touch' d with the torch the train — 

'Tis fired ! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down— 
The waves a moment backward bent— 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
AU that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain . 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkle 
With a thousand circling wrinkles : 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they? 
Let their mothers see and say I 
When in cradled rest they lay, 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child, 
Little deem'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more ; 
That one moment left no trace 
More of human form or face 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone: 
And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay. 
All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd t 

i— - - . 



TRK 8IEGK OF CORINTB. 149 

The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unbuhed dead ; 
The camels from their keepers broke ; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
The bull- frogs note, from out the marsh, 
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh ; 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
W'here echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,'° 
Bay'd from afar complainingly. 
With a mix'dand mournful sound. 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound t 
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
The eagle left his rocky nest. 
And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and •hriek-^ 
ThBS was Corinth lott $mi. wan 1 



PARISINA.» 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

Thk following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in 
Gibbon's " Antiquities of the House of Brunswick." I am aware, 
that in modem times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader 
may deem such subjects unfit for the purpose of poetry. The 
Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old English writers, 
were of a different opinion ; as Alfieri and Schiller have also 
been, more recently, upon the Continent. The following extract 
will explain the facts on which the story is founded. The name 
of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 

" Under the reign of Nicholas III. Fcrrara was polluted with 
a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his 
own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous 
loves of his wife Parisina, and Hugo, his bastard son, a beautiful 
and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the 
sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and 
survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were 
guilty : if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; 
nor is there any possible situation in which lean sincerely approve 
the last act of the justice of a parent." — Gibbon's Miieellaneotit 
Works, vol. iii. p. 470. 

I. 

It is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard ; 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; 

And gentle winds, and waters near, 

Make music to the lonely ear. 

Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 

And in the sky the stars are met. 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the leaf a browner hue. 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, 

So softly dark, and darkly pure. 

Which follows the decline of day, 

As twihght melts beneath the moon away. 

II. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 
That Parisina leaves her hall, 
And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
That the lady walks in the shadow of night i 



151 



And if she sits in Este's bower, 
Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower- 
She listens — but not for the nightingale — 
Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
There glides a step through the foliage thick, 
And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 
A moment more — and they shall meet — 
Tis past — her lover's at her feet. 

III. 
And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide? 
Its Hving things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had pass'd away. 

They only for each other breathe ; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay. 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway. 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
Who that have felt that passion's power, 
Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour.' 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet — they are already past ! 
Alas 1 we must awake before 
We know such vision comes no more. 



With many a lingering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieye, 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for ev«,r, 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace. 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart, 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



152 PARISINA. 

V. 

And Hugo h gone to his lonely bed, 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her sleep she seems, 
And red her cheek with troubled dreamt^ 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day 

And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away : 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart. 

And listen'd to each broken word : 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start. 

As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb. 
When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow. 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
And whose that name ? 'tis Hugo's, — hi»— • 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 
'Tis Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The ofiFspring of his wayward youth. 
When he betray'd Bianca's truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 

VII. 

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath. 

But sheath'd it ere the point was baie-~ 
Howe'er unworthy npw to breathe. 



153 



He could not slay a thing so fair — 
Al least, not smiling — sleeping — there — 
Nny more:— he did not wake her then, 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from her trance, 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd— 
While in his thought, her days are number'd. 

VIII.' 

And with the morn he sought, and found, 

In many a tale from those around. 

The proof of all he fear'd to know 

Their present guilt, his future woe ; 

The long-conniving damsels seek 

To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 

Concealment is no more — they speak 

All circumstance which may compel 

Full credence to the tale they tell : 

And Azo's tortured heart and ear 

Have nothing more to feel or "hear. 

IX. 

He was not one who brook'd delay : 

Within the chamber of his state, 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
His nobles and his guards are there, — 
Before him is the sinful pair ; 
Both young — and one how passing fair ! 
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 
Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 

Before a father's face 1 
.Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
And hear the sentence of his ire. 

The tale of bis disgrace! 
And yet he seems not overcome. 
Although, as yet, his voice be dnmb. 

X. 

And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering roonv 
Where high-born men were proud to wait- 
Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
And gather from lier air and gait 

The graces of its qiioiMi : 



154 



Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 
And made her quarrel all their own. 
Now, — what is she ? and what are they ? 
Can she command, or these obey ? 
All silent and unheeding now. 
With downcast eyes and knitting brow. 
And folded arms, and freezing air. 
And lips that scarce their scorn forbear. 
Her knights and damfts, her court — is therct 
And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 
Who — were his arm a moment free — 
Had died or gain'd her liberty; 
The minion of his father's bride, — 
He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 
Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
Less for her own despair than him : 
Those lids — o'er which the violet veia 
Wandering, leaves a tender strain, 
Shining through the smoothest white 
That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 
To press, not shade, the orbs below: 
Which glance so heavily, and fill. 
As tear on tear grows gathering still. 

XI. 

And he for her had also wept, ^ 

But for the eyes that on him gazed; 
His sorrow, if he felt jt, slept ; 

Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd. 
He would not shrink before the crowd; 
But yet he dared not look on her : 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's wrath — all good men's hate—" 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 
And hers, — oh hers! he dared not throvr 
One look upon that deathlike brow ! 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all tlie wreck it made. 

XII. 

And Azo spake : — " But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son : 
That dream this morning pass'd away; 

Ere day declines I sliall have none. 



155 



My life must linger on alone ; 

Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 

Who would not do as I have done : 

Those ties are broken — not by me ; 

Let that ioo pass ; — the doom's prepared 1 

Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 
And then — thy crime's reward ! 

Away ! address thy prayers to heaven, 
Hefore its evening stars are met — 

Learrt if thou there canst be forgiven ; 
Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 

But here, upon the earth beneath, 
There is no spot where thou and I 

TogetSier, for an hour, could breathe. 
Farewell ! I will not see thee die — ■ 

But thou, frail thing! shalt view his head- 
Away 1 I cannot speak the rest : 
Go I woman of the w anton breast ; 

Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 

Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive^ 

And joy thee in the life I give." 

XIII. 

And here stern Azo hid his face — 
For on bis brow the swelling vein 
Throblj'd as if back upon his brain. 
The hot blooil ebb'd and flow'd again; 
Ami therefore bow'd he for a pace, 
And pass'd his shaking hand along 
His eye, M> reil it from tlie throng ; 
While lingo raised his chained hands, 
And for a brief delay ilcinands 
His father's ear: the silent sire 
Forbids not what his words require, 

" It is not that I dread the death — 
For thou hast seen me by thy side 
All redly through the battle ride. 
And that not once a useless brand 
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine. 
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine: 

Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 
A gift for which F thank thee not ; 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
Her slighted love and ruin'd name. 
Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 
Hut she is in the grave, where he, 
Her son, thy rival soon shall be. 
Her broken heart — my sevcr'd head — 
Shall witness for thee from the dead. 



1&6 



How trusty and how tender were 
Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
'Tis true that I have done thee wrong — 

But wrong for wrong : — this deem'd thy bride^ 

The other victim of thy pride, 
Thou know'st for me was destined long. 
Thou saw'st and covetedst her charms — 

And with thy very crime — my birth, 

Thou tauntedst me — as little worth ; 
A match ignoble for her arms, 
Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
The lawful heirship of thy name, 
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 

Yet, were a few short summers mine, 

My name should more than Este's shine 
With honours all my own. 
I had a sword — and have a breast 
That should have won as haught^ a crest 
As ever waved along the line 
Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
Not always knightly spurs are worn 
The brightest by the better born ; 
And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
"When charging to the cheering cry 
Of ' Este and of Victory 1' 
I will not plead the cause of crime. 
Nor sue thee to redeem from time, 
A few brief hours or days that must 
At length roll o'er my reckless dust ;— 
Such maddening moments as my past, 
They could not, and they did not, last. 
Albeit my birth and name be base. 
And thy nobility of race 
Disdain'd to deck a thing like me — 

Yet in my lineaments they trace 

Some features of my father's face. 
And in my spirit — all of thee. 
From thee — this tamelessness of heart— 
From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start N-> 
From thee in all their vigour came 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 
Thou didst not give me life alone. 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done ! 
Repaid thee with too like a son I 
I am no bastard in my soul, 
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control : 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav'st and will resume so soon, 



PABI8INA. Mf 

I valued it no more than thou, 
When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
And ve, all side by side, have striven, 
And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would I that I then had died ; ^ 

For though thou work'dst ray mother s ill. 
And made thine own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'Tis not unjust, nUhoush from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die iu rVjame, 
My life begnu and ends the same : 
As err'd the sir^r, so .rrr'd the son, 
And thou muil jiunish both in one 
My crime seem-* worse to human view. 
Bat God must j»idgc betwcca us too I" 

XIV. 

He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd. 
When those dull chains in meeting clank d I 
Till Parisina's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to diC I 
She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide. 
Not once had turn'd to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close. 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 

But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair hd, 

It was a thing to see, not hear 1 

And those who saw, it did surprise. 

Such drops could fall from human eyes. 

To speak she thought— the imperfect note 

Was choked within her swelling throat. 

Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 

Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 

It ceased— again she thought to speak 

Ihen burst her voice in one long shriek. 



li» 



And to the earth she fell like stone 

Or statue from its base o'er thrown, 

More like a thing that ne'er had life, — 

A moniuneni of Azo's wife, — 

Than her, that living guilty thing, 

Whose every passion was a sting, 

Which \ii:v(:d to guilt, but could not bear 

That guiit"? detection and despair. 

But yet she lived — and all too soon 

Recov'-Til from that death-like swoon — 

But scarce to renson — every sen>;c 

Had beeti o'rrstnmg by pangs intense; 

And each frail fibre of her br.n'n 

(As bowstrings, when relax''! by rain, 

The erring arrow hancl! aside) 

Sent forth hei thoughts all wild and wide— 

The past a blank, the fuuirc hiack. 

With gUmpses of a dreary track, 

Like lightning on the desert path, 

When midnight stornis are mustering wratk 

She fear'd — she felt that something ill 

Lay on her soul, so deep and chDl — 

That there was sin and shame she knew; 

That some one was to die — but who ? 

She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 

Could this be still the earth beneath, 

The sky above, and men around ; 

Or where they fiends who now so frown'd 

On one, before whose eyes each eye 

Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 

All was confused and undefined 

To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 

And now in laughter, now in tears, 

But badly still in each extreme, 

She strove with that convulsive dream; 

For so it seem'd on her to break : 

Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 

XV. 

The Convent bells are ringing, 

But mournfully and slow; 
In the grey square turret swinging, 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go ! 
Hark 1 the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below, 

Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
For a departing being's soul 
The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells kncU i 
He is near his mortal v.oal ; 



Kneeling at the Iriar's knee ; 

Sad to hear — and jjiteous to see— » 

Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 

With the block before and the guards around 

And the headman with his bare arm ready, 

That the blow may be both swift and steady, 

Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 

Since he set its edge anew ; 

While the crowd in a speechless circle gathe 

To see the Son fall by the doom of the Fatbe 

XVI. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 
Before the summer sun shall set. 
Which rose upon that heavy day. 
And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; 
And his evening beams are shed 
Full on Hugo's fated head. 
As his last confession pouring 
To the monk, his doom deploring 
In penit(-ntial holiness, 
He bends to hear his accents bless 
With absolution such as may 
Wipe our mortal stains away. 
That high sun on his liead did glisten 
As he there did bow and listen — 
And the rings of chestnut hair 
Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
But brighter still the beam was thrown 
Upon the axe which near him shone 
With a clear and ghastly glitter — 
Oh 1 that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe; 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 

XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son — and daring lover! 

His beads and sins are all recounted, 

His hours to their last minute mounted — 

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd. 

His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd; 

'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn — 

The scarf which Parisina gave — 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Kvcn that must now he thrown aside, 

And o'er his eyes the kerchier tied ; 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 



160 



All feelings seemingly subdued, 

In deep disdain were lialf renew'd, 

When headman's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind t 

As if they dared not look on death. 

"No — ^yours may forfeit blood and breath—. 

These bands are chain'd — but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike :" — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke : 

" Strike :" — and flashing fell the stroke-^ 

RoU'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain'd and heaving trunk, 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain : 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 

Convulsed and quick — then fixed for ever. 

He died as erring man should die. 
Without display, without parade 
Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 
As not disdaining priestly aid. 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the prior kneeling, 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling, 
His wrathful sire — ^his paxamour^ — 
What were they in such an hour ? 
No more reproach — no more despair ; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer- 
Save the few which from him broke. 
When, bared to meet the headman's stroke, 
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
His soul adieu to those around. 

xvm. 

Still as the lips that closed in death. 

Each gazer's bosom held bis breath : 

But yet, afar, from man to man, 

A cold electric shiver ran. 

As down the deadly blow descended 

On him whose life and love thus ended : 

And, with a hushing sound compress'd, 

A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 

But no more thrilling noise rose there. 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen sbock^ 

Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill — so passing wild ? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow. 



M 



To the sky these accents go, 
Like a soul's in endless woe, 
Through Azo's palace -lattice driven, 
That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 
And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 
But sound and sight alike are gone I 
It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
In madlier accents rose despair ; 
And those who heard it, as it past, 
la mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Uugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower. 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been— 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 

Like words of wantonness or fear; 

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son ; 

No tomb — no memory had they ; 

Their's was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day. 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode. 

And won to heaven her dreary road, 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

For that dark love she dared to feel : 

Or if, upon the moment smote, 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block. 

With heart that shared the headman's shocks 

In quicken'd brokenness that carae, 

In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame. 

None knew — and none can ever kaow: 

But whatsoe'er its end below. 

Her life began and closed in woe I 

XX. 

And Azo found another bride, 
And goodly sons grew by his sidet 
But none so lovely and so brave 
As him who wither'd in the grave; 
Or if they were — on his cold eye 
Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
Or noticed with a smother'il sigh. 
But never tear his cheek descended. 
And never smile his brow uubended ; 



162 



And o'er that fair broad brow were wrouglit 

The intersected lines of thought ; 

Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was past all mirth or woe : 

Nothing more remained below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 

A heart which shunn'd itself — and yet 

That would not yield — nor could forget. 

Which, when it least appear'd to melt, 

Intently thought — intensely felt: 

The deepest ice which ever froze 

Can only o'er the surface close — 

The living stream lies quick below. 

And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 

Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 

By thoughts which Nature hath implanted { 

Too deedly rooted thence to vanish, 

Howe'er our stifled fears we banish 

When, struggling as they rise to start, 

We check those waters of the heart. 

They are not dried — those tears unshed 

But flow back to the fountain head. 

And resting in their spring more pure, 

For ever in its depth endure, 

Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd. 

And cherish' d most where least reveal'd 

With inward starts of feeling left. 

To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 

Without the power to fill again 

The desert gap which made his pain : 

Without the hope to meet them where 

United souls shall gladness share. 

With all the consciousness that he 

Had only pass'd a just decree ; 

That they had wrought their doom of ill, 

Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 

The tainted branches of the tree. 

If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
But if the lightning, in its wrath. 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels. 
And never more a leaf reveals. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON;' 

A FABLE. 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind f 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty 1 thou art. 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart which love of thee alonje can bind ; 

And when tby sons to fetters are consign'd — 
To fetters, an<l tl\e damj) vault's dayless gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! tliy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 

Until his very steps bave left a trace 

\Vorn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface I 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



My hair is grey, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night," 
As men's have grown from sudden fears: 
My limbs are how'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they bave been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To wLiom the goodly earth and air 
Arc bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden farex 
But this was for my father's faith 
I sufTer'd chains and courted death 
That fatlicr perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness fuuiul a dwelling-place 



lU 



104 THE PRISONER OF CQILLON. 

We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd 5 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

II. 
There are seven pillars of Gothic monld. 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
There are seven columns, massy and grey. 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away. 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score, 
When my last brother droop'd and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone. 
And we were three— yet, each alone ; 
We could not move a sifcgle pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech. 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope or legend old 
Or song heroically bold; 
But even these at length grew cold. 



TflK PRISONER OF CHILLON. 165 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 

As they of yore were wont to be : 

It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



I was the eldest of the three, 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best— 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him ray soul was sorely moved: 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure ami bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought l)ut others' ills. 
And then they flow'd like mountain rill*. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind, 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine: 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had foUow'd there the deer and wolf| 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
\nd fettcr'd feet the worst of ills. 



166 THK PRISONEU OF CHILLON. 

VT. 

Lake Leraan lies by Chillon's walls 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,' 

Which round about tlie wave enthrals 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay. 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd : 
And I have fdt the winter's si)ray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And tlien the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have Mt it shake, unshock'U, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 

I said ray nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare. 
And for tlie like had little care: 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our breail was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man tirst jjent his fellow men 
Like brutes wiiliin an iron den; • 

But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace hftd grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side; 
But wliy delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach Ids dying liand — nor dead, — 
Though hard 1 strove, but strove in vain. 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — an(i tliey unlock'd his chain, 
And scoup'd i'or him a shallow grav£ 
Even from the cold earth of our cave 
I begg'd then) as a boi.n, to lay 
His corse in oust whereon the day 



THE PRISONivR OP CHILLON. 167 

Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my l)rain it wrought, 
That even in death his frerhorn breast 
In such a dungeon couhi not rest. 
I might liave spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly lauijh'd — and laid him there: 
The flat and turfless earth ahove 
The being wc so much did love; 
His empty chain ahove it leant. 
Such murder's fitting monument 1 

VIII. 

But he, the favourite and the flower, 

Most chcrish'd since his natal hour. 

His mother's iinaije in fair face, 

The infant love of all hi« race, 

His martyr'd father's dearest thought. 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To board my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too. was struck, and <lay by day 

Was withcr'd on the stalk away. 

Oh, Ood ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : — 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin deliriiiii> with its dread: 

But the^c w<rr liorrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with sueh — but sure and slow; 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Mas as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray— 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 



168 THE PRISONEK OF CHILLON. 

And then the sighs he would suppresi 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less: 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd. and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him : — 1 found him not, 

/only stirr'd in this black spot, 

I only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew. 

The last — the sole — the dearest Unk 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath— 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathy 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir< or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none— >. 
Among the stones I stood a stone. 
And was. scarce conscious what I wist 
As shrubiess crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and grey 
It was not night — it was not day, 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness — without a place ; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time- 
No check — no change — no good — no crime-» 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionleis 1 



THK rKlSONKll OK CIIILLON. 
X. 

A \i^lii liroke in upon my brain, — 
1 1 was ilie carol of a bird ; 

It crasi-d, ami then it came again, 
riie sweciest song car ever heard 

Ami mine was tlianktul till ray eyes 

Ran oviT with the i-hul surprise, 

And tlicy tliat moment could not se 

1 was the mate ot" misery ; 

But then by dull degrees came back 

My senses to tlicir wonted track, 

1 saw the dungeon wMa and floor 

Close slowly round me a» before, 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it hetore had done. 

But through the crevice where it canie 

That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 
And tamer than upon the tree ; 

A lovely bird, with azure wings, 

A song that said a thousand things, 
And seem'd to say them all for me! 

I never saw its like before, 

I ne'er shall see its likeness more: 

It seem'd like me to want a mate. 

But was not half so desolate. 

And it was come to love me when 

None lived to love me so again, 

And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I knew not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird 1 I could not wish for thine ! 

Or if it were, in winged guise, 

A visitant from Paradise ; 

For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the whild 

Which made me both to weep and smile ; 

I sometimes dcem'd that it might be 

My brother's soul come down to me; 

But then at last away it flew. 

And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 

For he would never thus have flown. 

And left mc twice so doubly lone,— 

Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 

Lone— as a solitary cloud. 

A single cloufl on a sunny day 
^Vhile all the rest of heaven is clear 
A fro'Au upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 



IM 



170 THE PRISONER OF CHILLOK. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate; 
I know not what had made them 80, 
They weioe inured to sights of woe, 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With link unfasten'd did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side. 
And up and down, and then athwart. 
And tread it over every part : 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun. 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 

I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and al'l, 

Who loved me in a human sbape; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 
I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them had made me mad; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high 
The quiet of a. loving eye. 

XIII. 

I saw them — and they were the same. 
They were not changed like me in frame j 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below,_ 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 
And whiter sails go skimming down 
And then there was a little isle,'* 
Which in my very face did smile. 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more. 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 



THE PRISONEIl OF CHILLON. 171 

But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breatli and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seeni'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Mcthonght he never flew so fast 
As th«a to me he seem'd to fly. 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much oppress'd 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I bad no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote, 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where. 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus when they appear'd at last 
And all my bonds aside were oast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half 1 felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less then they ? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had poWer to kill— yet, strange to tell I 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and 1 grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are ; — even I 
Itegain'd my freedom ivith a sigh.' 



MANFRED: 

A DRAMATIC POEM.1 



" There are more things in heaven and earth, HoMUio» 
Than are dreamt of in your philoaophy." 



DRAMATIS PERSONJE. 

Manfred. Witch or the Avea. 

Chamois Hunter. Arimanes. 

Abbot of St. Maurice. Nemesis. 

Manuel. The Destwties. 

Herman. Spirits, &c. 



The scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps — partly 
in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains. 

ACT I. SCENE I. 

Manfrsp alone — Scene, a Gothic Gallery — Time, 
Midnight. 

Man. The lamp must be replenish *d, but even then 
,.% m\l not burn so long as I must watch: 
M/ slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not : in nfy heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes hut close 
To look within; and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the wise; 
Sorrow is knowledge ; they who know the most 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of tlie world, 
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself — . 
But they avail not : I have done men good, 
And 1 have met with good ev'n among men^ 
But this avail'd not : I have had my foes, 
And none have baffled, many fallen before me— 
But this avail'd not : — Good, or evil, life, 
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 



HANFRKO 173 

Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 

Since <liat all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 

And feel the curse to Lave no natural fear, 

Nor fluttering throl), that heats vtitUhopes or wikhei, 

Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 

Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light— 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts. 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
I call upon ye by the written charm 

Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appear I 

IJpauu, 
They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign. 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
Who is undying, — Rise ! appear 1 Appear ! 

If it be so. — Spirits of eartk and air. 
Ye shall not thus elude me: by a power, 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell. 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, 
The Inirning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

[^ star is seen at tfte darker end of the gallery : it M 
stationary ; and a voice is heard singing. 

First Spirit. 
Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud« 
Which the breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion. 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
To thine adjuration bow'd, 
Mortal — by thy wish avow'd! 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountain! i 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of cloudSf 

With a diadem of snow. 



174 



Around his waist are forests braced, 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mait 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern' d base — 

And what with me vvouldst Thouf 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 
In Vhe blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strife, 
"Where the wind is a stranger, 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the Mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells; 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold 

Fourth Spirit. 
Where the slumbering earthquake ' 

Lies pillow'd on fire. 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher ; 
Where the roots of the Andea 

Strike deep in the earth. 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth; 
I have quitted my birthplace. 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide 1 

Fifth Spirit. 
I am the Rider of the wind, 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To speed to thee, o'er shore and IMI 

I swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'Twill sink ere night be past. 



MANFRED. 175 

Sixth Spikit. 
My dwelling is the shadow uf the night, 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light? 

Seventh Sriiiir. 
The star which rules thy destiny 
Was rnkd, ere earth began, by me: 
It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round suu and air ; 
Its course was free and regular, 
Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived — and it became 
A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
A pathless comet, and a curse 
The menace of the universe ; 
Still rolling on with innate force, 
Without a sphere, without a course, 
A bright deformity on high, 
The monster of the upi>cr sky ! 
And thou ! beneath its influence born— 
Thou worm! whom I obey and scorn — 
Forced by a power (which is not thine, 
And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
For this brief moment to descend. 
Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
And parley with a thing like thee — 
What wonldst thou, Child of Clay ! with me? 

The Sevkn Spirits. 
Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 

Are at thy beck and bidding. Child of clay ! 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 

What wouldst tliou with us, son of mortals — say ? 

Mar\. Forgetfulness 

First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why ? 

Man. Of that which is within me : read it there^ 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess i 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'ci earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators, each and all, 
These shall be thine. 

Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion- 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
Hut — thou may'st die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 



176 MANFRED. 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
We are eternal : and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 

Man. Ye mock me — but the power which brought ye here 
Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! 
The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 
The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading, and far-darting as your own. 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay I 
Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answer'd; our reply 
Is ev'n in thine own words. 

Man. Why say ye so ? 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as oun, 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
MortaJs call death hath nought to do with us. 

Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain ; 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Say ; 

What wc possess we oflFer ; it is thine : 
Bethiak ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days— 

Man. Accursed! what have I to do with days ? 
They are too long already. — Hence — begone ! 

Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do thee 
service : 
Bethink thee, is therethen no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 

Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we part— 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
As music on the waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 

Spirit. We have no forms beyond the element! 
Of which we are the mind and principle : 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 

Man. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 
Seventh Spirit. (^Appearing in the shape of a beautiful 

female figure.) Behold ! 
Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
Art not a madness and a mockery, 
I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 
And we again vrill be — ~ \_The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 

[Manfred falls senseless. 



HANrRED. 177 

iA voice is heard in the Incantation which /ollowa.y* 

When the moon is on the wave, 

And the glow-worm in the grass, 
And the meteor on the grave, 

And the wisp on the morass ; 
When the falling stars are shooting, 
And the answer'd owls are hooting, 
And the silent leaves are still 
In the shadow of the hill, 
Shall my soul be upon thine, 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumhcr may he deep, 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish, 

There are thoughts thou canst not baniah; 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone ; 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud. 

Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 

And for ever shalt thon dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 

Thou shalt feel me ^vith thine eye 

As a thing that, though unseen, 

Must be near thee, and hath been 

And when in that secret dread 

Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 

Thou shalt marvel I am not 

As thy shadow on the spot, 

And the power which thou dost feel 

Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 
Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 
And a spirit of the air 
Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
In the wind there is a voice 
Shall forbid thee to rejoice : 
And to thee shall Night deny 
All the quiet of her sky ; 
And the day shall have a suu, 
Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 
An essence which hath strength to kill; 
From thy own heart 1 then did wring 
The black blood in its blackest fjiring; 
From thy own smile I snatch'd the suake. 
For there it coil'H as in a brake; 



178 MANFRED. 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 
"Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 
In proving every poison known, 
I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 

By that most seeming virtuous eye, 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the peifection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Ca^, 

I call upon thee ! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die, 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear: 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 

SCENE II. 

The Mountain of the Jumjfrau. — Time, Morning, — MaN« 
FRED alone upon the Cliffs. 

M<in. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
]'h<^: spells which I have studied baffle me — 
Tlic jtiuf d; I reck'd of tortured me; 
I Itaii lio iuort on superhuman aid. 
It hatli nci power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulf'd in darkness, 
It is not of my search — My mother Earth ! 
And tliou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountain*, 
Why are yc beautiful ? 1 cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
That op< nest over all, and unto all 
Art a ilehght — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
Ant! \'ju. >e crags, upon whose extreme edge 
r st.a:\ci, ami on the torrent's brink beneath 
i';!;oIii t?j.t tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In diziiness of distance : when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring _ 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 



MANFRED. 179 

I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 

I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 

And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm; 

There is a power upon me which withholds, 

And inai<es it my fatality to live ; 

If it he life to wear within myself 

Tliis barrenness of spirit, and to be 

My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 

To justify my deeds unto myself — 

The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[^n eagle paue$, 
Wliose happy flight is highest into heaven. 
Well niay'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
NVIiere the eye cannot follow thee; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
With a perv.-.ding vision. — Beautiful ! 

How beautiful is all this visible world ! • s- 

How glorious in its action and itself! 
Cut we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our niix'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The Ijreath of degradation and of pride, 
Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
Till our mortality predominates. 
And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
.\nd trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

[ T/ie Shepherd's pipe in the distance it heard. 
The natural music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd; 
My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing hantony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me! 

Enter from below a Chamois Hukter. 

Chamois Hunter. Even lm 

This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled mc ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my bieak-nrck travail. — What is here.' 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none ev'n of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud ns a freehorn peasant's, at this distance.— 
I will api)roacli him nearer. 

Man. fnot perceiving the other). To be thus — 



180 MANKllEO. 

Grey-hair'd with anguish, ^ like these blasted inat», 

Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchles s , 

A blighted trunk upon a cursed root. 

Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 

A.nd to be thus, eternally but thus. 

Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 

With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by yeat* 

And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 

Which I outlive ! — Ye toppling crags of ice ! 

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 

In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crushme! 

I hear ye momently above, beneath, 

Crash with a frequent conflict ;* V^it ye pass, 

And only fall on things that still would live ; 

On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 

And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

Men. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap'd with the damn'dlike pebbles. — I am giddy.^ 
C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously ; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

Man. Mountains have fallen, 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters ; 
ilaramiiig the rivers with a sudden dash. 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and maid 
Their fountains find anotlier channel — thus. 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
Why stood I not beneath it .' 

C. Hun. Friend ! have a care, 

Your next step may be fatal ! — ^for the love 
Of him who made yon, stand not on that brink ! 

Man. (not hearing him). Such would have been foi 
me a fitting tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall be— 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
Ye were not meant for me — Earth ! take these atoms ! 

[.r^* Manfreo is in the act to spring from the diff 
the Chamois Hunter seizes and retains Mm 
with a stcddtn grasp. 
C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweai-y of thy life, 



Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — 
Away with me- 1 will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not— 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
Spinning around me 1 .ntw lOind What art thoa? 

C. Hun. I'll answer that anon. — Away with me 

The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me — 

Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand, 
And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — 
Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing. 
And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
lath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done — 
You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

lAs tkey descend the rocks with difficulty, the $eent 
closes. 



ACT II. SCENE I. 

A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. 

Manfred and the Chamois Huntsk. 

C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go 
forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither ? 

Man. It imports not: I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guidance. 

C.Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage- 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — '.vhich of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths. 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
\ know from childhood — which of these is thine .' 

Man. No matter. 

C Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the questioo, 

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine ; 
'Tig uf an ancient vintage : many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 

Man. Away, away 1 there's blood upon the brim 
Will it then never— never sink in the earth ? 



8*4 MANFRHD. 

C. Hun, What dost thou mean ? thy senses wander from 
thee. 

Man, I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm 
stream 
vV'hich ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed : but still it rises up. 
Colouring the clouds, tl>at shut me out from heaven, 
Where thou art not — and 1 shall never be. 

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-madden- 
ing sin, 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience — 

Man, Patience and patience ! Hence — that word was 
made 
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey 5 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! 

I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — I live. 

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 

Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number : ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslacked ! 

C. Him. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Had scarce been set : I am thine elder far. 

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time ? 
It doth ; but actions are our epochs ; mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore. 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert. 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Kocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must not leave him. 

Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

Tliat thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon? 

Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home. 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; 



MANFBED. 183 

Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of clieerfnl old age and a quiet grave, 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul was seorch'd already ! 
C. Hun. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot for 
mine ? 

Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear — t 

However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear 

In life what others could not brook to dream, 
Hut perish in their slumber. 

C. Hun. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so, 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 

Man. Oh 1 no, no, no 1 

My injuries came down on those who loved me— 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence— 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest I 

And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not, 

But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
'Tis time — farewell ! — Here's gold, and thanks for thee-' 
No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
I know my ])ath — the mountain peril's past: — 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 

{Exit MANFRSOk 

SCENE II. 

A lower VaUey in the Alps. — A Cataract, 

Enter Manfred. 

It is not noon — the sunbow's rays^ still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
o'tr the crag's headlong perpendicular. 
And (line; its lines of foaming light along, 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
Tln' Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As tdhi in the Apocalypse.* No eyes 
Hut mine now drink this sight of loveliness; 
1 bhould be sole in this sweet solitude. 



184 UAATFUED. 

And with the Spirit of the place divide 

The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 

[Manfred takes some of the water into thi 
palm of his hand, and flings it in the air, 
muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the 
Witch of the Alps rises beneath the arch oj 
the sunbow of the torrent. 
Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light, 
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form f 

The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 
Or the rose tints, which summer's twiUght leaves 
Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 
The blush of earth, embracing with her heaven,— 
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 
Which of itself shows immortality, 
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
At times to commune with them — if that he 
Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
And gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts. 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what would'st thou with me? 
Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch. What could be the quest 

Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it ? 'twere in vain. 
Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it. 
Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men. 
Nor I'^ok'd upon the earth with human eyes; 



MANFRED. 18i 

The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 

Tlie aim of their existence was not mine ; 

My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 

Made me a stranger; tliongii I wore the form, 

I hail no sympaihy with breathing flesh, 

Nor midst tiie creatures of clay that girded me 

Was'tliere but one who but of her anon. 

I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 

I iield but slight communion; but instead, 

My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 

The dirticult air of the iced mountain's top, 

\\ here the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 

Flit o'er the herblcss granite ; or to plunge 

Into the torrent, and to roll along 

On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 

l>t" river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 

In these my early strength exulted; or 

To follow through the night tlie moving moon. 

The stars and their development; or catch 

Tiie dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim; 

Or to look, list'ning, on the scaiter'd leaves, 

While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 

For if the beings of whom I was one, — 

Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 

I felt myself degraded back to them. 

And was all clay again. And then I dived, 

In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 

Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 

From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up datt, 

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 

The nights of years in sciences untaught, 

Save in the old time; and with time and toil. 

And terrible ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air, 

And spirits that do compass air and earth. 

Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 

Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings rrised 

Eros and Anteros", at Gadara, 

As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until, 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd ray vorda> 

Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being. 



186 MANFRED. 

With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 

If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 

Yet there was one — 

Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 

Man. She was like me in lineaments — her eye», 

Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 

Ev'n of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 

But soften'd all, and tempei'd into beauty : 

She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 

The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 

To comprehend the universe : nor these 

Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 

Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 

And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 

Humility — and that I never had. 

Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — 

I loved her, and destroy' d her! 

Witch. With thy hand ? 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke hci 
heart — 

It gazed on mine, arid wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not her's — and yet her blood was shed — 
I saw — and could not stanch it. 

Witch. And for this— 

A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above. 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink 'st back 

To recreant mortality Away ! 

Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that hour — 
But words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 
Or watch my watchings — come and sit by me ! 
My solitude is solitude no more. 
But peopled with the Furies ; — I have gnash'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
Then cursed myself till sunset! — I have pray'd 
For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me, 
I have affronted death — but in the war 
Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 
And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back. 
Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
In fantasy, imagination, all 
The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep. 
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
Into the gulph of my unfathom'd thought. 
I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 
I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 
And that I have to learn — my sciences. 



MwraiD. 187 

My long pursued and sujicrlmman art, 
Is niortiil here — I dwell in tuy despair, 
And live — and live for ever. 

IVilch. It may be 

That 1 i:an aid thee. 

Mnii. To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
Witii any torture — so it he the last. 

Jl'iick. That is not in my province; but if thou 
Wih swear obedience to my will, and do 
My biildii.i;, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

Man. I will not swear — Obey! and whom .' the spirits 
\Vliose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never ! 

Witch. Is this all ? 

Hast thou no gentler answer ? — Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 

Man. I have said it. ' 

Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say 1 

Man. Retire I 

[7'/(e Witch disappears. 
Man. (alone.) We are tlie fools of time and terror : Days 
Steal on us and steal from us : yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 
Cr joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
liow few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my s ience — I can call the dead, 
And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
The sternest answer can but l)e the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet answered to the Hag 
Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the liyzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
.\iid died nnpardon'cl — though he call'd in aid 
The Pliyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her tctin of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but fulfiird.'" 



188 MANFRED. 

If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living ; had I never loved, 
That which I love would still be beautiful- 
Happy and giving happiness. Wliat is she ? 
What is she now ? — a suflferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — • 
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
But I can act ev'n what I most abhor. 
And champion human fears. — The night approaches. 

SCENE III. 

The Summit of the Jumjfrau Mountain. 

Enter First Destiny. 

The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright; 

And here on snows, where never human foot 

Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread. 

And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea. 

The glassy ocean of the mountain ice. 

We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 

The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 

Frozen in a moment" — a dead whirlpool's image ; 

And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 

The fretwork of some earthquake — where the cloud* 

Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 

Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 

Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 

To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 

Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not, 

A Voice without, singing. 
The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne. 
Lay buried in torpor, 
Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He's Tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he'll answer my care 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast. 
But I left not a sail, and 1 left not a mast ; * 



MANFRED. 189 

There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, 

And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck t 

Save one, whom I held, as to swam, hy the hair, 

And he was a suhject well worthy my care ; 

A traitor ou land, and a pirate at sea — 

But I saved him to wreck fw ther havoc for me I . 

First Destiny, answering. 

The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn ou it weeping : 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly : 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they shall cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch thai they die from. 

Sorrow aud anguish, 
And evil and dread, 

Envelope a nation — 
The blest are the dead, 
Who see not the sigiit 

Of their own desolation. — 
This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing— 
For ages I've done, and shall still be roiuevvingl 

Enter the Second and Third Destinum. 

The Three. 

Our hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves; 
We only give to take again 

The spirits of our slaves ! 

First Des. Welcome 1 — Where's Nemesis ? 
Second Des. At some great work % 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
Third Des. Behold, she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 

First Des. Say, where hast thou been? 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

Nem. I was detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies, 
And making them repent their own revenge; 
Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 



11 



I no MANFRED. 

Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
To weigh kings in the haiance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Awaj I 
We have outstay'd the hour — mount we our clouds! 

^Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his Throne, a Globe 
of Fire, sui rounded by the Spirits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 

Hail to our ifaster ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 

Who walks the clouds and waters— in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at Jiis high command! 
He hreatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee; 

He nioveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
The comet's herald through the crackling skies; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him U ar offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty 1 

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his throne I 

Third Des. Glory to jVrimancs ! we await 
His nod ! 

Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are thine, 
And all that Hveth. more or less, is ours, 
And most tilings wholly so; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
And we are vigilaiit — Thy late commands 
Have been fulfiU'd to the utmost. 

Enter Manfred. 

A- Spirit. What is here f 

A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship ! 



e 



MANFRED. 191 

Second Sptrit- I do know the man— 

X. Miipiaii of great power, and fearful skill 1 

Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave 1 — 
NVhat know'st thou not 
riiine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey I 

All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned 
clay. 
Child of the earth 1 or dreiid the worst. 

Mail. I know it ; 

And yet ye see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'Twill l)e taught thee. 

Man. 'Tis taught already ; — many a night on the earthy 
On the hare ground, have 1 bow'd down my face, 
And strew'd my lieail with allies; I have known 
The fulness of humiliation, for 
1 sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Ivefusc to Arimanes on his throne 
\Miat the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his Glory ? — Crouch ! 1 say, 

Man. Hid him bow down to that which is above hinii 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made liim not for worship — let him kneel, 
.And we will kneel together. 

7 he Spirits. Crush the worm I 

Tear him in pieces. — 

First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he's mine. 

Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his suflerings 
llii\e been of nn immortal nature, like 
Our own ; bis knowledge and his powers and vrill. 
As far as is compatible with clay, 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay bath seldom borne; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth. 
And ihey have only taught him what we know — 
Thai knowleilgc is not happiness, and science 
Piifan exchange of ignorance for that 
^^ liich is aiKitUer kind of ignorance. 
Tlis is not all — the ))assions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, 
Nor breath fnun the worm upwards is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
^lade him a thing, wbith i, vIiq pity not, 
\i-'i pardon those who pity, lie in mine, 
.\nd tliine, it may be — bi- it so, or not, 
No oiher Spirit in this rcgio»hath 
\ soul like his — or power upon his sonl. 



192 MANFRED. 

Nem. What doth he here then ? 
First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ye know what I have known; and without powet 
I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
Nem. What would'st thou ? 

Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal? 
Ari Yea. 

Nem. Whom would'st thou 

Uncharnel ? 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 

Astarte. 

Nemesis. 
Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever thou art, . i 

Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay 
Which retur'd to the earth, 

Re-appear to the day ! 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 
And the aspect thou worest 
Redeem from the worm 
Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 

\^The Phantom of Astarte rises and standi 
in the midst. 
Man. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her cheek ? 
But now I see it is no living hue 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh, God! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 
By the power which hath broken 

The grave which enthrall 'd thee, 
Speak to him who hath spoken, 

Or those who have call'd thee ! 

Man. She is silent, 

And in that silenee 1 am more than answer'd. 

Nem. My power extends no further Prince of air! 



MANFRED. 193 

t rests with thee alone — command he. fOice. 

Ari. Spifil — obey the sceptre I 

Nem. Silent still I 

She is not of oui* order, but belongs 
To other powers. Mortal 1 thy quest is vain, 
\nd we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me, near me— 

Astartc ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee marv 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as 1 loved ihec : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
'Ihc deadhcst sin to love as we iiave loved, 
Say that tliou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This |)unishiitent for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — And tliat I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
A future like the past. I cannot rest, 
I know liot what I ask, nor what I see 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 
And 1 would hear yet once before I perish 
'1 he voice which was my music — Speak to me 1 
For I have called on thee in the still night. 
Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd bougha. 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
Acquainted with thy vaiidy echoed name. 
Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars. 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness — >^peak to me ! 
Look on the tieiids around — they feel for me : 
1 fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — hut say — 
1 reck not what — but let me hear thee once— 
This oiice — once more 1 

Phantom of Astarle. Manfred ! 

Man. Say on, say on— 

I live hut in tiie sound — it is thy voice ! 

Phan. Manfred i To>morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man. Yet one word more — am 1 forgiven } 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. Une word for mercy 1 Say, thou lovest Mr 



i94 MANrREO. 

Phan. Manfred ! 

[The Spirit o/'Astaute dixappears.^^ 

Nem. She's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 

Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 

A S^nrit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and 
makes 
Ilis torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

Ncm. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 

Man. None. 

Nem. Then for a time farewell. 

Man. We meet then ! "Where ? On the earth ?— 
Ev'n as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

lExit Manfred. 
(Scene closes.) 



ACT III. SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour .' 

Her. It wants but one till sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well : 

Thou may'st retire. [Exit Hermax 

Man. (alone). There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last. 
But it is well to have known it, though but oncei 
It hath enlarged my thoughts vv'ith a new sense. 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 



MANPUeD 195 

Re-enter Herman. 
Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the ABnoT of St. Madrice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks holy father ! welcome to these walls ; 
Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. \Vould it were so, Count !^ 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. llerniaii, retire. — What would my reverend guest? 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude : — Age and zeal, my office, 
And good intent, must plead my privilege; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, 
May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
And of unholy nature, are al)road, i 

And busy with thy name; a noble name 
For centuries : may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. 'Tis said thou boldest converse with the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these things ? 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
Ev'u thy owi» vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 

I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity, reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to heaven. 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply : whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be ray mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish : 

Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 
But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Hath eiven me power to smooth the path from sin 



J 



196 MANFRED. 

To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
I leave to heaven,—" Vengeance is mine alone 1* 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men^ 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — " 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these, 
The innate tortures of that deep despair, 
Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
Upon itself; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 
He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place. 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall be taught; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd, 

Man. When Rome's sixth emperor'^ was near his last 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a pubhc death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back, and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
" It is too late — is this fidelity ?" 

Abbot. And what of this ? 

Man. I answer with the Roman— 

"It is to late I" 

Abbot. It never can be so. 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul. 
And thv own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 
*Tis strange — ev'n those who do despair above, 
Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth. 
To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. 

Man. Ah — father ! I have had those earthly visions 
And uoole aspirations in my youth. 
To make ray own the mind of other men, 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 

knew not whether — it might be to fall ; 



MANFRED. 197 

But fall, ev'n as the mountain-cataract, 

Which liaviiig leapt from its more dazzling lieight, 

Ev'n in the foaming strength of its abyss, 

(Which cast up misty columns that become 

Clouds raining from the rc-asccnded skies,) 

Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past, 

My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wherefore so ? 

Man. I could not tame my nature down; for he 

Must serve who fain wonld sway — and soothe — and sue— 

And watch all time — and i)ry into all place — 

And be a living lie — who would become 

A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 

The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 

A herd, though to he leader — and of wolves. 

The liosi is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men ? 
Man. Because ray nature was averse from life ; 

And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : like the wind, 
The red-hot breath of the most lone simoom. 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 

The barren sands which bear no shrul)s to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves. 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought. 
But being met is deadly ! such hath been 
The course of my existence ; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Ala« I 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From nic and from my calling ; yet so young, 

I still would 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age. 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
S'»me perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness- 
Some of disease — and some insanity — '« 
And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts ; 
For this last is a malady whicii slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me ! for ev'n of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of ail these things. 
One \verc enough ; then wonder not that I 
Am what I am, but that I ever was. 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot, Yet, hear me still 

Man. Old man ! I do respect 



198 MANFRED. 

Thine order, and revere thy years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churUsh ; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — Farewell'^ 

lExif Manfred. 
Abbot This should have been a nobler creature :'^ he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 
Mix'd and contending without end or order, 
All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
And yet he must not ; 1 will try once more. 
For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I'll follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

{Exit Asavft, 

SCENE II. 

Another Chamber. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset; 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so ? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the Window of the HalL 
Glorious orb 1 the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons '^ 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisofts ! Thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief star I 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects : — thou dost rise, 
\.nd shine, and set in g'lory. Fare thee well 1 



MANKRKO. 



199 



I ne'er shall see thee more. As luy first glance 

Of love and woinier was for thee, tlieii take 

My latest look : tliou wilt n»t beam on one 

To whom the gift of life and warniih have heen 

Of a more fatal nature. He is gone ; 

I follow. lEant Manfbbd. 



SCENE in. 

T/ic Mountains — The Castle of Manfred at some distance — 
A Terrace before a Tower. — Time, Ihcilight. 

IIuaMAN, .Manuel, and other Dependants q/" Manfred. 

Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night after night, for years, 
lie hatli pursued long vigils in this tower. 
Without a witness 1 have beca within it, — 
So have we all been uftiuies ; hui from it, 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
Ti> draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To he sure, there is 
Duo. chamber where none enter; I wonld give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
To )iore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'Twere dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou kuow'st already. 

IJer. All ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
And could^t say much ; thou hast dwelt within the castle— 
How n.ar.y veal's is't ? 

.Miuiuei. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 

I/er. There be more soi'.s in like predicament. 
Lut wherein do they ditfer ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits; 
Coint Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free, — 
A \\arrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
Will; books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, hut a festal time, 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
1 rom men and their delights. 

I/er. Beshrew the hour, 

lUit those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh I 1 have seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

fler. . Ionic, be fiiendly; 

Relate me some to while away our watch ; 



200 MANFRED. 

I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happeu'd hereabouts, in this same tower. 

Manvel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening: — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested ilien, — 
So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower. 
How occupied we know not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly thingt 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love, — 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 

The Lady Astarte, his 

Hush ! who come here ? 

Enter the Abbot. 

Ahbot. Where is your master ? 

Her, Yonder, in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speak with him. 

Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot, Hermai 1 I command thee, 

Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 

I pray you pause. 

Abbot. Why so ? 

Manuel. But step this way, 

And I will tell you further. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

Interior of the Tower. 

Manfred alone. 

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shiniug mountains. — Beautifull 
t linger yet with Nature, for the night 
Hatli lieen to me a more familiar face 



iOl 



Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 

Of dim and solitary loveliness, 

I Icarn'd the language of another world. 

[ do romeniber me, that in my youth, 

When 1 was wandering, — upon such a night 

I stood within the Coliseum's wall,'* 

Midst the chief relics of almighty Home; 

The trees which grew along the broken archea 

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 

Shone througli the rents of ruin ; from afar 

The watclidog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and 

.More near from out the Cffisars' palace came 

Tbe owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 

Of di^tant sentinels the fitful song 

Uegun and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 

Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 

Within a bowshot — where the Caesars dwelt, 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battlemeuti» 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths. 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 

But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection I 

While Cxsar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay- — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light. 

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and till'd up. 

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ! 

Leaving ihat beautiful which still was so. 

And making that which was not, till the place 

I'ecaine religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old ! — 

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. — 

'Twas such a night! 
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
lint I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
liv'u lit ilie moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 
Abbot My good lord I 

I crave a second grace for this approach; 
lUit yet let not my humble zeal offend 
Hy .ts abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Ut'coiis on me; its good in tbe effect 
May light. upon your head — could I say heart— 



202 MANFRED. 

Could I touch that, with words or praters, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
But is not yet all lost. 

Man. Thou know'st me not ; 

My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded : 
Retire, or 'twill be dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 

Man. Not I ; 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost mean 

Man, Look there 

What dost thou see ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there, I say, 

And sitedfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest. 

Abbot. That which should shake me,— but I fear it 
not — 
I sec a dusk and awful figure rise, 
Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds : he stands between 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 

Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I say to thee — Retire ! 

Abbot. And I reply — 

Never — till I have battled with this fiend: — 
What doth he here? 

Man. Why — ay — what doth lie here ? 

I (lid not send for him, — he is unbidden. 

Abbot. Alas 1 lost mortal ! what with guests like these 
liast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake: 
V\'l\y doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him .•' 
\h ! he unveils his aspect: on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
Avaunt ! — 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission .' 

Spirit. Come ! 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ? answer ! — 
speak ! 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come! 'tis time, 

Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent thee here? 

Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come! come! 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater fa-r than thine. 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hcurr ! 

Sjiirit Mortal I thine hour is come — Away ! I say. 



MANFRED. 203 

Man. I knew, and know my liour is come, but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 

Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren. — Rise ! 

[Other Spirits rise up. 

Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones ! — Avaunt 1 I say, — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
And I do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

"■Ve know ourselves, our mission, and thine order; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses. 
It were in vain : tliis man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away 1 away ! 

Man. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
Is chliitig from me, yet I do defy ye; 
Niir «ill 1 hence, while 1 have earthly breath 
!■) l)rcatlie my .scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
Miall be ta'cn limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal.' — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
Which made thee wretched! 

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest I 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know, 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour; 
1 do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels; my past power 
Was purchased t)y no compact with thy crew, 
13 ut by superior science — penance — daring — 
And length of watching — strength of mind — and skiU 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
U[)on my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn i)ack, and scorn ye 1 — 

Spirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

Man. What are they to such as thee? 

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes. 
And greater crimiiia'.s .' — Back to thy hell ! 
Thou hast no power upon me, thai 1 feel ; 
Thou never shalt possess mc, that I know: 
What I have done is done ; I bear within 
\ torture which couid nothing gain from thinat 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts— 
li its own origin of ill and end — 



204 MANFRED. 

And its own place and time — its innate sense, 

When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 

No colour from the fleeting things without ; 

But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 

Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 

Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me ; 

I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 

But was my own destroyer, and will be 

My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 

The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 

\^The Demons disappear. 

Ablot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to Heaven — 
Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

Man. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. Cold — cold — ev'n to the heart — 

I3ut yet one prayer — Alas ! how fares it with thee ? 

Man. Old man ! 'tis not so difficalt to die. 

["Manfred expire$. 

Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en its earthlew 
flight — 
Wither ? I dread to think — but he is gone. 



CAIN. 

A MYSTERY. 



' Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field whiHl 
the Lord God had made."— Gen. ch. iii. ver. 1> 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Men. — Adam. JFomen. — Eve. 
Cain. Adah. 

Abel. Zillah. 

Spirits, — Angel of the Loao 
Lucifer. 



PREFACE. 

The following scenes are entitled "A Mystery," in conformity 
^^'ilh the ancient title annexed to dramas upon similar subjects, 
which were styled "Mysteries, or Moralities." The author has 
by no means taken tlie same liberties with his subject which were 
common formerly, as may be seen by any reader curious enough 
U) rtler to those very profane productions, whether in English, 
French, Italian or Spanish. The author has endeavoured to 
preserve the language adapted to his characters ; and where it is 
(and thii is but rarely) taken from actual Scripture, he has made 
us little alteration, even of words, as the rhythm would permit. 
The reader will recollect that ilie book of Genesis does not slate 
ihal Eve was tenipitd by u demon, but by "the Serpent;" and 
il;al only because he was " the most subtil of all the beasts of the 
ni Id. " Whatever interpretation the Babbins and the Fathers 
II. ay have piit upon tlii.s, I lake the wordii as I find them, and 
I'l'ly, will) Bishop Watson upon similar occasions, when the 
l'..ili(.rs were quoted to him, as Moderator in the schools of Com- 
l.'i.'gc "Behold the Book !" — holding up the Scripture. Tt is 
to lie recollected that my present subject has uolhiiig to do with 
tlif AVu/ I'etlament, to which no reference can be here mad« 
wiilioiit anachronism. With the poems upon similar topics I 
have not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty, I have 
iiivir read Milton ; but I had read him so frequently before, 
that liiis may make little difference. Gesner's "Death of Abel" 
I li.ive never icad since I was eight years of age, at Aberdeen. 
'I he general ini|iressiun of my recollection is delight ; but of tlie 
i:onteiiIs I remember only that Cain's wile was culled Mahalu, 
and Abel's Thir/.a : in the following pages I have ei'.lled them 
"Adah" UM<1 ' /IIIhIi," the curliest female names which occur 
IE Genesis; tliey weie those of Luniech's wives: those of Cain 



206 



and Abel are not called by their names. Whether, then, a coin 
sidence of subject may have caused the same in expression, 1 
know nothing, utid care as little. 

The reader will please to bear in mind (what few choose to 
recollect), that there is no allusion to a future state in any of the 
books of Moses, nor indeed in the Old TestanKnt.> For a reasoa 
for this exiraordiaary amission he may consult Warburton"s 
" Divine Legation ;" whilher satisfactory or not, no better has 
yci been assigned. 1 have theretore supposcil it new to Cain, 
uiihout, I hupe, any perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult for me 
to make liim talk like a clergyman upon the same subjects ; but I 
have done what I could to restrain him within the bounds of 
spiritual politeness. 

If he disclaims liaving tempted Eve in the shape of the Ser- 
pent, it is only because the book of Genesis has not the most 
distant allusion to aiiy thing of the kind, but merely to the Ser- 
pent in his serpentine capacity. 

Note. — The leader will perceive that the author has partly 
adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that the world had 
been destroyed several times before the creation of man. This 
speculation, derived from the difierent strata and the bones ol 
enormous anci unknown animals found in them, is not contrary to 
the Mosaic account, but rather conlirms it ; as no human bones 
have yet been discovered in those strata, although those of many 
known animals are found near the remains of the unknown. The 
assertioii of Lucifer, that the pre-Adamite world was also peopled 
by rational beings much more intelligent than man, and propor- 
tionably powerful to the mammoth, &c &c. is, of course, a poe- 
tical fiction to help him to make out his ease. 

I ought to add, that there is a " tramelogedia " of Alfieri, called 
" Abele. ' — I have never read that, nor any other of the posthu- 
mous works of the writer, except his Life. 

Ravenna, Sept. 20, 1821. 



ACT I. SCENE I. 



The Land without Paradise. — Time, Sunrise. 

AuAM, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, offering « 
Sacrifice. 

Adam. God, the Eternal ! Infinite! All- wise! 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Light on the waters with a word— all hail ! 
Jehovah, with returning light, all liail ! 

Eve. God 1 who didst name the day, and separate 
Morning from night, till then divided never — 
Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 

Abel. God ! wlio didst call the elements into 
liaith — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
And night, the worlds, which these illuminate, 



CAIN. 2Qf 

Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 

And love both them and thee — All hail ! all hail 1 

Adah. God, the eternal I Parent of all things I 
NVho didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 
Let lue love thee and them : — All hail ! all hail I 

Zillah. Uh, God 1 who loving, making, blessing all, 
Yet didst permit the Serpent to creep in. 
And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil :— Hail ! all hail! 

Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art thoa 
silent ? 

Cain. Who should I speak? 

Adam. To pray, 

Cain. Have ye not pray'd ? 

Adam. We have, most fervently. 

Cain. And loudly : I 

Have beard you. 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Abel. Amen J 

Adam. But thou, ray eldest born, art silent still. 

Cain. 'Tis better I should be so. 

Adam. AVherefore so? 

Cain. I have nought to ask.3 

Adam. Nor aught to thank for ? 

Cain. No. 

Adam. Dost thou not live ? 

Cain. Must I not die ? 

Eve, Alas I 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To t'all.3 

Adam. And we must gather it again. 
Oh, God ! Why didst thou plant the tree of knowledge ? 

Cain. And wherefore pluck'd ye not the tree of life ? 
Ye might have then defied him. 

AdarK. Oh ! my son, 

Blaspheme not : these are serpents' words. 

Cain. Why not 

The snake spoke truth : it was the tree of knowledge 1 
It was the tree of life ; knowledge is good 
And life is good 1 and how can both be evil ? 

Eve. My boy I thou speakcst as I spoke, in sin, 
Hcfore thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
My misery in thine. I have repented. 
Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
W liicli e'en in Paradise destroy'd bis parents. 
Content thee with whai is. Had we been so, 
Thou now badst been contented. Oh, my son! 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let us hence, 



%08 CAIN. 

Each to his task of toil ; not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is young, aud yields us kindly 
Her fruits with little labour. 

Eve. Cain, my sou, 

Behold thy father cheerful and resign 'd. 
And do as he doth. {^Exexmt Adam and Evk. 

Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 

Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy bro 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal anger ? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou frown ev'n on me ? 

Cain. No, Adah ! no ; 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I'm sick at heart ; but it will pass. 
Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
And you, too, sister, tarry not behind; 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
I'll follow you anon. 

Adah. If not, I will 

Return to seek you here. 

Abel. The peace of God 

Be on y6ur spirit, brother I 

lExeunt Abel, Zillah, and Adah. 

Cain (solus) And tiiis is 

Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil i — because 
My father could not Keep iiit> piacc .u ii!ut:bi 
What had / done in this ? — I was unborn ; 
I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
To which that birth has brought me. Why did he 
Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or, 
Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 
The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew. 
The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
One answer to all questions, " Twas his will, 
And he is good." How know I that ? Because 
He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? 
I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter— 
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
Whom have we here ? — A shape like to the angels, 
Y'et of a sterner and a sadder aspect 
Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 
Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
Whom 1 see daily wave their fiery swords 
Befure the gates round which 1 linger oft. 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens which are my just inheritance. 
Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls 
And the immortal trees which overtop 



im 



Tlic cheruliini-defendcH l)<ittlements ? 

If I shriiiii 111)1 from lh(;se, the fire-arm*d angels, 

Why should I quail from him who now approaches? 

Yet he seems mightier far than tiieni, nor less 

Heauteoiis. and yet not all as beautiful 

As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 

Half of his immortality.-* And is it 

So ? and can aught grieve save humanity? 

He comelii. 

Enter Lucifer. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 
Cain. Spirit, who art thou? 

Lucifer. Master of spirits. 

Cain. And being so, canst thoa 

l.iave them, and walk with dust ? 

Lucifer. I know the thoughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and witii you. 

C'«i»j. How 1 

You know my thoughts? 

Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 

N\'orthy of thought ; — 'tis your immortal part 
Which speaks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part? 

This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
Was withheld from us by my father's folly. 
While tiiat of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death 1 

Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou shalt live. 

Cam. I live, 

Hut live to die: and, living, see no thing 
To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
A loathsome, and yet all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so 1 live. Would I had never lived ! 

Lucifer. Thou livest, and must live for ever : think not 
The earth, \vhich is thine outward cov'ring, is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou art now. 

Cain. No lets ! and why 

No more .' 

Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. 

Cain. And ye ? 

Lucifer. Are everlasting. 

Cain. Are ye happy? 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 

Cain. Are ye happy? 

Lucifer. No:artth(m? 

Cain. How should I be so ? Look on me i 



r— - 



210 CAIN, 

Lucifer Poor clay ! 

And thou pretendest to be wretched ! thou ! 

Cain. I am : — and thou, with all thy might, what art 

thou ? 
Lucifer, One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 
Cain. Ah ! 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and 

Lucifer. I am none ; 

And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
Save what I am. He conquer'd ; let him reign I 
Cain. Who? 

Lucifer Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

Cain. And heaven's. 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father saitli. 
Lucifer. They say — what they must sing and say, on 
pain 
Of being that which I am — and thou a' t — 
Of spirits and of men. 

Cain, And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — ^ 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made. 
As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
But, if he made us — he cannot unmake: 
We are immortal ! — nay, he'd have us so, 
That he may torture : — let him ! He is great — 
But, in his greatness, is no happier than 
We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 
Evil ; and what else hath he made? But let him 
Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 
Creating worlds, to make eternity 
Less burthensome to his immense existence 
And unparticipated solitude ! 
Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 
Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant 1 
Could he but crush himself, 'twere the best boon 
He ever granted : but, let him reign on, 
And multiply himself in misery 1 
Spirits and men, at least we sympathize — 
And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 
Innumerable, more endurable, 
By the unbounded sympathy of all — 
With all ! But He! so wretched in his height, 
So restless in his wretchedness, must still 

Create, and re-create 

Cain. Thou speak'st to me of things whi ch long have 



CAIN. 211 

III visions through ray thou^'ht: I never could 

Reconcile what I saw with wliat I heard. 

My father and my mother t;iik to me 

Of serpents, and of fruits and (rcea : I see 

Tiic pates of what they call llieir Paradise 

Guarded I)y fieiy-sworded cherubim, 

Wliicli shut them (nit, and mc : I feel the weight 

Of daily toil and constant thought : I look 

Aroniid a world where I seem nothing, with 

Thoiigliis whicli arise within mc, as if they 

Could master all things: — hut I thousiht alone 

This misery was mine. — My father is 

Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 

Which made lier thirst for knowledge at the risk 

Of an eternal curse; my brother is 

A watching she|iherd hoy, who offers up 

'I he firstlings ol the flock to him who bids 

The earth yield nothing to us without sweat; 

iMy sisier Zdlah sings an earlier hymn 

Than the birds' matins; and my Adah, my 

Own and beloved, she, too, nndcrstarids not 

The mind which overwhelms me : never till 

Now met I aught to r7ni])athize witli me. 

'Tis well — I rather would C(.:isort witii spirits. 

Lucifer. Anrl hadst thou not been fit by thine own BOol 
For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 

Cain. Ah ! didst t/wu tempt n)y mother ? 

Lucifer. I tempt none, 

Save witii the truth : was not the tree, the tree 
Of knowledge .' and was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful ."* Did / bid her pluck tliem not? 
Did /plant things prohibited within 
The reach of beings innocent, and cnriotis 
By their own innocence ? I would have made ye 
Gods ; and even He who tiirust ye fortli, so thrust ye 
Because " ye should not eat the fruits of life, 
And become gods as we." Were those his words ? 

Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who heard 
them. 
In thunder. 

Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And [)ower of knowledge ? 

Cain. Would th^y had snatch'd both 

The fruits, or neither I 

Lucifer. One is yours already ; 

The other may be still. 



912 «AIN. 

Cain, How so ? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
To sway. 

Cahi. But didst thou tempt ray parents ? 

Lucifer. 1 ? 

Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how ? 

Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit, 

Lucifer. Who 

Saith that ? It is not written so on high : 
The proud One will not so far falsify, 
Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
In nature being earth also — more in wisdom, 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Think'st thou I'd take the shape of things that die? 

Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 

Lucifer. He but woke one 

In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent: ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
Have roU'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, 
1 he seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
That bows to him, who made things but to bend 
Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 
But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing, 
And fell. For what should spirits tempt tnem ? What 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who prevade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou know's' \ot| 

With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Cain. But thou canst not. 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know* 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 

Lucifer. A ud heart to look on ? 

Cain. Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Barest thoif to look on Death ? 

Cain. He has not yet 

Been seen. 

Lucifer. But must be undergone. 



CAIK. 213 

Cam. My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he is named ; and Abel lifts his eyes 
To heaven, and Ziilah casts hers to the earth, 
Anil sighs a prayer ; and Auuh looks on me, 
And speaks not. 

Lucifer. And thou ? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 

Crowd in ray breast to burning, when 1 hear 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems 
Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him? 
I wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 
In iilay, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 

Lucifir. It has no shape; but will absorb all thingt 
That bear the form of earth-born being. 

Cam. Ah ! 

I thought it was a being: v. ho could do 
Such evil things to beings save a being .•' 

Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. The Maker — call him 

Which name thou wilt; he nsakes but to destroy. 

Cain, I knew not that, yet 1 tbougiit it, since I heard 
Of death : although 1 know not what it is. 
Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd cut 
In the vast desolate night in search of him, 
And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chcquer'd 
Dy the far flashing of the cherubs' swords, 
I watch'd for what I thought his coming;" for 
With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
What 'twas which shook us all — but nothing came. 
And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 
Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
Up to the lights above us, in the azure, 
Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ? 

Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive Inuh thine and the«. 

Cain. I'm glad of that ; I would not have tliem die — 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
I cannot conipas^i : 'lis denounced against us. 
Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill — 
What ill ? 

Lucifei'. To be resolved into the earth. 

Cain. But shall I know it ? 

Lucifer As I know not death 

I cannot answer. 

Cain. Were I quiet earth 

That were no evil : would I ne'«r had been 
Aught else but du&t. 



214 CAIN. 

Lucifer. That is a grovelling wisk. 

Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 

Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
The life-tree ? 

Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 

Cain Deadly error 

Not to snatch first tliat fruit : — but ere he pluck'd 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas 1 I scarcely now know what it is, 
Ami yei I fear it — fear I know not what ! 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing: see 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 

Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 

Cain. Name it. 

Lucifer. That 

Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 

Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worsliips. 

Lucifer. No. 

Cain His equal ? 

Lucifer. No ; — I have nought in common with him ! 
Nor would : I would i)e aught ahove — beneath — 
Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great ; — 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 

Cain I never 

As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oft implores / 

That I would join with him in sacrifice: — 
Why should I bow to thee? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 

To him ? 

Cain. Have I not said it ? — need 1 say it ? 
Coulil not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that ? 

Lucifer. He who bow s not to him has bow'd to me ! 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

LMcifer. Ne'er the less, 

Thou art my worshipper: not. worshipping 
Him makes thee mine the same. 

Cain. And what is that .' 

Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and hereafter. 

Cain. Let me but 

Be tauu'ht the mystery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow 

Where I will lead thee. 

Cain. But I must retire 
To till the lartli — for I had promised 

Lucifer. What ? 

Cain.' To cull some first-fruits. 



CAIN. 215 

Lucifer. Why? 

Ci'in. To offer up 

Willi AI)el on an altar. 

I.ucifer. Saidst thou not 

Tliou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee ? 

Cain. Ye»— 

r>iit Al)el's earnest prayor has wrought upon me; 
The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 

[Atcifer. Why dost thou liesitate? 

Cain. She is my sister, 

IJoni on the same day, of the same womb ; and 
>hc wrung from me, with tears, this promise; and 
Rather tiian see her weep, 1 would, methinks, 
Bear all — and wirship aught. 

Lucifer. Then follow me i 

('a 111. I will. 

. Enter Adah. 

.Idah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 

It is our hour of rest an<l joy — and we 
Have less without thee Tliou hast labour'd not 
This morn; hut I have done ihy task: the fruits 
.\re ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens: 
Come away. 

Cafn. See'st thou not .' 

,-i(lah. I sec an angel ; 

WV have seen many : will he share our hour 
Of rest .' — he is welcome. 

Cain.% But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

.4({ah. Are there, then, othen ? 

But he is welcome, as they were: they deign'd 
To (»• our uue^ts — will he .' 

Cam > to Lucifer.) Wilt thoU ? 

Lurifer. 1 *8* 

Thee to be mine. 

Cam. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us ? 

Cain. Ay. 

Adah. And me 7 

Clin. Beloved Adah ? 

Adah. Let me go with thee. 

Lucifer. No, she must not. 

Adah. Who 

Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 

Cain, lie is a god. 

Adah How know'st thou .' 

Cain He speaks like 

A god. 

Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 



fr^ 



216 CAIN, 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Ad.ih ! — was not the tree that 
Of knowledge ? 

Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 

Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — so he lied not ; 
^nd if he did betray you, 'twas with truth ; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 
Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
Which Cometh not, Cain! walk not with this spirit. 
Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
Love thee. 
Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 
Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? 
Lucifer. No, not yet : 

It one day will be in your children. 

Adah. "What! 

Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch? 
Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 
Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Shall they not love and bring forth things that love 
Out of their love ? have they not drawn their milk 
Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, • 

Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me ? did we not love each other? and 
In multiplying our being multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love § 
Them ? — And as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 
Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 

Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
[t seein in those who will replace ye in 
Mortality. 

Adah. What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself.' Can circunisiance make sin 
Or virtue .' — if it doth, we are the slaves 

Of 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves : and bigker 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture 
To the smooth agonies of adulation. 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayetl^ 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotent, and not from love. 
But terror and self-hope. 

Jdah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 
Lucifei Was it so in £(ien .' 



CAin. 217 

Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou art 
fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

Lucifer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother: bears she not the knowledge 
Of good and evil ? 

yidah. Oh, my mother ! thou 

Hast pliick'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
Than to thyself; thou at the least hast pass'd 
Tliy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with hai)py spirits; 
But we, iliy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about ijy demons, who assume 
Tiie words of God, and tfiuipt us with our own 
iJissatislicd and curious ihouglits — as thou 
Wert work'd on by tiie snake, in thy most flush'd 
And iieedless, harmless wantoni'.esc; of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immortal thing 
Wiiicii stands before me ; I cannot abhor him 
I look upon liim with u pleasing fear, 
And yet 1 lly not from ii ni : in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction wliicb 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
Heals quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near. 
Nearer, and nearer: — Cain — Cain — save nie from him I 
Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 
Adak lie is not God — nor God's: I have beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
Like then). 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 
The archangels. 

Lucifer. And still loftier than the archangels. 

Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 
Lucifer If the blessedness 

Consists in slavery — no. 

Adah. i have heard it said, 

The seraphs love most — cherubim know most — 
Ami this should be a cherub— since he loves not. 

Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches lOTe* 
What must he be you cannot love when known ? 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance: 
That they are not incompatible, the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there it 
No other choice; your sire hath chosen already; 
His worship is but fear. 
Adah Oh, Cain I choose love. 

Cain. I'or tbec, my Adah, I choose not — it wm 
Bora with me — but I love nought else. 



CIS CAIN. 

Adah. Our parents ? 

Cain. Did they love us when they snalch'd from the 
tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 

Adah. We were not born then — and if we had been, 
Should we not love them and our children, Cain ? 

Cain. My little Enoch 1 and his lisping sister ! 
Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Tlirougli thiice a thousand generations ! never 

Shall men love the remembrance of the man 

Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

In the same hour ! They »pluck'd the tree of science 

And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 

Begot me — thee — and all the few that are. 

And all the unnuraber'd and innumerable 

Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may b^., 

To inherit agonies accumulated 

By ages ! — and / must be sire of such things ! 

Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy, 

The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 

All we love in our children and each other. 

But lead them and ourselves through many years 

Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 

Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 

To Death — the unknown I Methinks the tree of know« 

iedge 
Hath not fulfiU'd its promise : — if they sinn'd, 
At least they ought to have known all things that are 
Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that ? 

Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — 

I will have nought to do with happiness, 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone I could not 

Nor would be happy : but with those around us 
I think I could be so, despite of death, 
Which, as I know it not, I- dread not, though 
It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

Lucifer. And thou couldst not 

Alone, thou say'st, be happy ? 

Adah. Alone ! Oh, my God ! 

Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 
To me my solitude seems sin ; imless 
When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 
His brother, and our children, and our parents. 



219 



Lucifer. Yet thy God is aloue j and is he happy ? 
l.ontly, and good? 

Atla/i. He is not so ; he hath 

The angels and the mortals to make happy, 
And thus become so in diffusing joy 1 
What else can joy be, but the spreading joy ? 

Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; 
Or of his first-born son : ask your own heart ; 
It is not tranquil. 

Adaft. Alas ! no 1 and you — 

Are you of heaven ? 

Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
Maker of life and living things; it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 
And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
His scraplis say ; but it is worth the trial, 
Since better may not he without : there is 
A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 

Adah. It is a beautiful star; I love it for 
Its l)eauty. 

Lucifer. And why not adore ? 

Adah. Our father 

Adores the Invisible only. 

Lucifer. But the symbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of w liat is visible ; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saiih that he has beheld the God himself 
Wliu made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen him ? 

Adah. Yes — in his works. 
ucifer. But in his being ? 

Adah No- 

Save in my father, who is God's own image : 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming: as the silent sunny noon, 
All light they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
Streak the deep purple, and unniimber'd stars 
Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns; 
So l)eautiful, unniimber'd and endearing, 
Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them. 



220 CAiA. 

They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem' St unhappy: do not make us so, 
And I will weep for thee. 

Lucifer. Alas 1 those tears ! 

Couldst thou but know what oceans will be shed ■ 

Adah. By me 

Lucifer, By all. 

Addh. What all ? 

Lucifer. The million millions— 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled Hell, 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah. Cain! 

This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on ; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah. Whither ? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour , 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. How can that be? 

Lucifer. Did not your Maker mako 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
Show in. an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroy' d in few ? 

Cain. Lead on. 

Adah Will he, 

In sooth, return within an hour? 

Lucifer. He shall. 

W^ith us acts are exempt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour. 
Or stretch an hour into eternity : 
We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
But that's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 

Adah. Will he return ? 

Lucifer, Ay, woman ! he alone 

Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save One), — shall come back to thee, 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Where dwellest thou ? 

Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where should I dwell ? 
VV'here are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or shall people both— 



CAiy. Ml 

These nro my realms ! So that I do divide 
Uii, and possess a kingdom which is not 
Hit. If I were not that which I have said, 
Could I stand hero ? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 

Bpoke with our mother first. 

Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 

If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
Tiiat tiiirst ; nor ask thee to ])artake of fruits 
Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 

Cain. Spirit I have said it. 

\^Exeunt Lucifer and Cain. 

Adah {follows, exclaiming). Cain! my brother! Cain I 



ACT II. SCENE I. 
The Abyss of Space. 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shaltbe 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 

Lucifer. Believe — and sink not 1 doubt — and perish 
thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels; they 
licho the sound to miserable things. 
Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow senses, 
Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 
Evil or good what is proclaimed to them 
In their abasement. I will have none such: 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life, 
With torture of my dooming. There will come 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-dropi, 
.\ man shall say to a man, " Believe in mt. 
And walk the waters ;" and the man shall walk 
The billows and be safe. / will not say, 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thou dar'st not deny, — the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art) 
Is yon our earth .' 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recog;mM 

The dust which form'd your father ? 



222 CAIN 

Cain, Can it be ? 

Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 

With an inferior circlet near it still, 

Which looks like that which lit our earthly night ? 

Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls. 

And they who guard them? 

Lticifer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 

Cain. How should I? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, it grows smaller and smaller, 

And as it waxes little, and then less, 

Gathers a halo round it, like the light 

Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 

Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise: 

Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 

Appear to join the innumerable stars 

Which aie around us ; and, as we move on, 

Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 

By greater things, and they themselves far more 

In number than the dust of thy dull earth. 

Though multiplied to animated atoms, 

All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched, 

What wouldst thou think? 

Cain. I should be proud of thought 

Which know such things. 

Lucifer. But if that high thought werfl 

Link'd to a sterile mass of matter, and, 

Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 

And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 

To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 

All foul and fulsome, and the very best 

Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 

A most enervating and filthy cheat 

To lure thee on to the renewal of 

Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 

As frail, and few so happy 

Cain. Spirit! I 

Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life ; a heritage not happy. 
If I may judge, till now. But, spirit ! if 
It be as thou hast said (and I within 
Fee] the prophetic torture of its truth), 
Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death, 
And multiplving murder 



CAIN. 824 

Lucifer. Thou canst, not 

AUA\e. — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
lit' shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
H'ritten upon ^is forehead. But at least 
I.c; what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may lie in the rest as auv^els are 

Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou he as I am ? 

Cain. I know not what thou art: I see thy power 
And see thou show'st me things heyond my power, 
I'nyond all power of my horn faculties, 
.Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. ^^ 

Lucifer. What are they which dwell *^ 

So humhly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay.' 

Cain. And what art thou wno dwellest 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Secm'st sorrowful ? 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst he immortal ? 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately — but since it must be, 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
lo anticipate my immortality. 

Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

Cain. , How ? 

Lucifer. By suffering. 

Cain. And luust torture be immortal f 

Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, behold 1 
Is it not glorious? 

Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 

And uniuiagiuable ether! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
y\nd still increasing lights! what are ye? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
IS your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unooundcd revelry 
Through an aiirial universe of endless 
Expansion — at which my soul aches to tliink— • 
Intoxicated with eternity ? 
fill God! Oh Gods ! or wlialsoe'er ye are ! 
Mow beautiful ye are ! b.ow bcaaliful 
Yuur Morks, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 



224 CAIN. 

They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die 

(If that they die), or know ye in your might 

And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 

Unworthy what I see, though my dust is : 

Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? look bacl^o thine earth ! 

Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 

Lucifer. Look there ! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. That ! — yonder 1 

Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 

Wlfy,- 1 have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

Lucifer. .Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of them ? 

Cain. That they are beautiful in their own sphere, 
And that the night, which makes both beautiful. 
The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 

Lxtcifer. But by whom or what ? 

Cain. Show me. 

Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold? 

Cain. How know I what 

[ dare behold ? As yet, thou hast shown nought 
I dare not gaze on further. ^ 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal ? 

Cain. Why, what are things ? 

Lucifer. Both partly : but what doth 

Sit next thy heart ? 

Cain. The things I see. 

Lucifer. But what 

Sate nearest it ! 

Cain. The things I have not seen, 

Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 

Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which have died, 
As I have shown thee much which cannot die } 

Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade frcm 
us ! 
The earth ! where is my earth ? • Let me look on it, 
Vor I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee, 



CAIN. 225 

Less, in the universe, tlian thou in it ; 
Yet (Iccm not that thou canst escape it : thou 
Shalt soon return to eartli, and all its dust : 
'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 

Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 

Lucifer. To what was before thee I 

The phantasm of the world : of which thy world 
Is hut the wreck. 

Cain. What 1 is it not then new ? 

Luciftr. No more than life is ; and that was ere thos 
Or / were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either : many things will have 
No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou ; and mightier things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise; for moments only and the sjjace ♦ 

Have been and must he all nncharxj cable. 
Hill changes make not death, except to clay ; 
Bui thou art clay, — and canst but comprehend 
Tlial wliich was clay, and such thou shall behold. 

Cuin. Clay, spirit ! what thou wilt, I can survey. 

Lucifer. Away, then 1 

Cain. But the lights fade from me fait 

And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
And wore the look of worlds. 

Litciftr. And such they are. 

Cain. And Edens in them ? 

Lucifer. It may be. 

Cain. And men ? 

Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 

Cain. Ay ? and serpents too ? 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them ? must 
no reptiles 
Urcathe save the erect ones ? 

Cain. How the lights recede 1 

Where tly we .' 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 

Artr itcings past, and shadows still to come. 

Cain. But it grows dark and dark — the stars are gone I 

Lucifer. And yet thou seest. 

Cain. 'Tis a fearful light | 

No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
Tlie very blue of the empurpled night 
lades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 
Huge dusky masses: but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which bcj^irt with light, 
Sccm'd full of life ev'n when their atmosphere 
Of light ).ave way, and showed them taking shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast nioiiiit.iiiis ; 



-226 CAIN. 

And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liguid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took, 
Like them, the features of fair earth ; — instead, 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death and dead things ? 

Cain. I seek it not, but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
And all that we inherit, liable 
To such, 1 would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold ! 

Cain. This darkness. 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ! but we will 
Unfold its gates I 

Caint Enormous vapours roll 

Apart — what's this ? 

Lucifer. Enter I 

Cain. Can I return ? 

Lucifer. Return ! be sure : how else should death be 
peopled ? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be, 
Through thee and thine. 

Cain. The clonds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round us. 

Lucifer. Advance! 

Cain . And thou ! 

Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond the world. On I on ! 

[ They disappear through the cloudt, 

SCENE II. 

Hades 8 

Enter Lucifer and Cain. 

Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim worlds ! 
For they seen more than one, and yet more peopled • 
Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
So thickly in the upper air, that I 
Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 
Of some all unimaginable heaven, 
Than iliings to be inhabited themselves, 
But that on drawing near them I beheld 
Their swelling into pal|ial)le immensity 
Of matter, which seeni'd made for life to dwell Oll» 
Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
It speaks of a day past. 



w 



Lucifer. It is the realm 

Of death — Wouldst have it present ? 

Cnifi. Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
lUit if it he as I have heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 'tis a thing — 
Oh God ! I dare not think oii't ! Cursed be 
lie who invented life that leads to death! 
Or the dull mass of life, that, heiiig life, 
Could not retain, hut needs must forfeit it — 
Evun for the innocent! 

Luci/'T. Dost thou curse thy father ? 

Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me my birth ? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden ? ^ 

Lucifer. Thou say'st well ; 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
I'lut for thy sons and brother? 

Cain. Let them share it 

Willi me, thiir sire and brother? What else is 
I'.erpieath'd to me ? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh, }c interminuhl'' gloomy realms 
Of swimn)ing shadows and enormous shapes, 
Some lully shown, some distinct, and all 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye ? 
Live ye, or have ye lived ? 

Lucifer. Somewhat of both 

Cain Then what is death ? 

Lucifer. What ? Hath not he who m»de ye 

Said 'tis another life ? 

Cain. Till now he hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall dic.^ 

Lucifer. Perhaps 

lie one day will unfold that further secret. 

Cam. Happy the day I 

Lucifer. Yes : happy ! when unfolded 

Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconseious atoms, 
All to be animated for this only ! 

Cain. What are these mighty phantoms which I se6 
(■'iii.iting around ine ? — They wear not the form 
Of tlie intelligences I have seen 
Houiiil our regtetieil and unenter'd Eden, 
Nor v\far llio form of man as I have view'd it 
In Adam's and in Abel's, and in mine, 
Nor in my sister-liride's, nor in my children's: 
Ami yet they have an aspect, whicli, though not 
Of men nor imtji'ls, h.oks like something, which 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, 



228 CAIN. 

Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Cam. Where ? 

Lucifer. Where 

Thou livest. 

Cain, When 

Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 

They did inhabit. 

Cain. Adam is the first. 

Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to be 
Tlie last of these. 

Cain. Aud what are they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou shalt be. 

Cain. But what were they ? 

Lucifer, Living, high, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be, 
In its didl damp degeneracy, to 
Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, judge 
By thy own flesh. 

Cain. Ah me 1 and did they perish ? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from 
thine. 

Cain. But was mine theirs ? 

Lucifer. It was. 

Cain. But not as now, 

It is too little and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures.'" 

Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 

Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 

Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 

CvJn Bui how .' 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 

Deslrr.ciion an I (lisorderof the elements, 
VVliicli struck a world lo chf.os, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a \vo:ld : such things, 
Tliougl) rare in time, are frequent in eternity — 
I'ass on, and gaze upon tlic past. 

Cain. 'Tis awful I 



CAIN. 829 

£«<?(/«•. And triie. Behold these phantoms theywere 
once 
.Material as thou art. 

Cain. And must I be 

Like thcin ? 

Lucifer. Let He who made thee answer that. 
I show thee what thy predecessors are, 
And wliat tin y were tliou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings <ind 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of higli intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in common liave with what they had 
Is life, and what ye skalt have — death : the rest 
t)f your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles cngender'd out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness— 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee hack and till 
The earth, thy task — I'll waft thee there in safety. 

Cain. No : I'll stay here. 

Lucifer. How long ? 

Cam. For ever ! Since 

I must one day return here from earth, 
I rather would remain : I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 

Lucifer. It cannot he : thou now beholdest as 
A vision that which is reality. 
To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
Must pass through what the things thou see'st havepass'd— 
The gates of death. 

Cain. By what gate have we enter'd 

Even now? 

Lucifer. By mine! But, plighted"to return. 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er repaM 
To earth again ? 

Lucifer. - Their earth is gone for ever — 
So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely hardcn'd surface — 'twas— 
Oil, what a beautiful world it teas! 

Cain. And is. 

it is not with the earth, though I must till it, 



230 CAIN 

I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it, bears of beautiful untoiling, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With kiiovvleflge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou see'sc, 

But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures, 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd. 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but ten-fold 
In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them* 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branches — what were they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

The mammoth is in thy world ; — but these lie 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Cain. But 

None on it .'" 

Lucifer. No : for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it useless — 
'Twould be destroy'd so early. 

Cain. But why war ? 

Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciation 
Which drove your race from Eden — war with all things, 
And deahth to all things, and disease to most things, 
And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the fruits 
of the forbidden tree. 

Cain, But animals — 

Did they, too, eat of it, that they must die ? 

Lucijer. Your maker told ye, they were made for yoUi 
As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons ; 
Like them, too, without having shared the apple ; 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowledge I 
It was -a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowledge at i\\e. price 
Qi death — but knowledge still : but what knows man? 

Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest knowledge! 
And being of all things the sole thing certain. 
At least leads to the surest science: therefore ^ 

The tree was true, though deadly. 



CAIN. 231^ 

Cain. These dim realms ! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly — but 'tis something 
To know there arc such realms. 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 

L ucifer. But not what was beyond it. 

Cain. Nor know I now. 

Lucifer. Thou knowest that there it 

A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
And this thou knewest not this inorn. 

Cain. l^ut all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Be content ; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortality. 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
What is it ? 

Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 

Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 'tis the phantasm of an ocean. 

Cain. 'Tis like another world ; a liquid sun— 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface ? 

Lucifer. Are its inhabitant!. 

The past leviathans. 

Cain, And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears its dripping mane and vasty 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden ? 

Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, best 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 

Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
Had more of beauty. 

Lu?ifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him? 

Cain. iMant of the same kind (at least so call'd), 
Put never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 

Lucifer. Your father saw him not ? 

Caiit. N" : 'twas my mother 

Who tempted him^shc tempted by the serpent. 



232 CAIN. 

Lucifer. Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy sons' wivet 
Tempt thee or them to aught that's new or strange, 
Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 

Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there is no more 
For serpents too tempt woman to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may tempt man to, 
And man tempt woman ; — let thy sons look to it I 
My counsel is a kind one ; for 'tis even 
Given chiefly at my own expense: 'tis true, 
'Twill not he foUow'd so there's little lost. 
Cain. I understand not this. 

Lucfer. The happier thou 1— 

Thy world and thou are still too young ! thou thinkest 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so ? 

Cain. For crinie, I know not, but for pain, 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-horn of the first man I 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 
Of sorrow — and thou suHerest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Thou shortly may'st be; and that state again 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a paradise 
To what thy sons sons' sons', accumulating 
In generations like to dust (which they 
In fact but add to), shall endure and do. — 
Now let us back to earth ! 

Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this ? 

Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 
Cain. Yes ; as being 

The road to happiness. 

Lucifer, If truth be so, 

Thou hast it. 

Caid, Then my father's God did well 

When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
A part of all things. 

Cain, Not of all things. No ; 

I'll not believe it. — for I thirst for good. 

Lucifer. And who and what doth not .' Who covets evil 
For its own bitter sake ? — None — nothing ! 'tis 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 

Cain. Within those glorious oibs vihich we behold, 
Distant, and dazzling, and innumerable. 
Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
111 cannot come : they are too beautifuL 



233 



Lud/er. Thou hast seen them from afar — 

Cain. And what of that ? 

Distance can but .diminish glory — they, 
V hen nearer, must be more inetT;ib!e. 

Lucifer. Approach the tliiiigg of earth most beautiful, 
And judge their beauty near. 

Cain. I have done this— 

The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 

LuciftT. Then there must be delusion. — What is that, 
Wliich lieiiig nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful than beauteous things remote.' 

Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars of heaven, 
The deep blue moon of night, lit by an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
His setting indescrihabln, which fills 
My eyi's with pleasant tears which as I behold 
llim sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
Along that western paradise of clouds — 
The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's 
Tlie vesper bird's which seems to sing of love 
And mingles with the song of cherubim. 
As the day closes over Eden's walls; — 
All these are nothing, to the eyes and heart, 
Like .Vdah's face: I turn from earth and heaven 
Tu gazi! on it. 

Lucifer. 'Tig fair as frail mortality. 

In the lirst dawn and bloom of young creation, 
.\nd earliest embraces of earth's parents. 
Can make its offspring; still it is delusion. 

Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 

Lucifer. Mortal I 

My brotherhood is with those "who have no children. 

Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 

Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for me, 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Reing beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do I exist .* 

Why art thou wretched .' why are all thing so ? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
Can surely never be the task of joy, 
\nd yet my sire says he's omnipotent: 
Then why is evil — he being good ! I ask'd 
This question of my father ; and he said, 
llecause this evil only was the path 
To good. Strange good, that must arise from out 
Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
A lamb stung by a reptile : the poor suckling 



2S4 CAIN. 

Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 
Springs good ! 

Lucifer. What didst thou answer ? 

Cain. Nothing; for 

He is my father : but I thought, that 'twere 
A better portion for the animal 
Never to have been stung at all, than to 
Purchase renewal of its little life 
With agonies unutterable, though 
Dispell'd by antidotes. 

Lucifer. But as thou saidst 

Of all beloved things thou lovest her, 
Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
Unto thy children 

Cam. Most assuredly : 

What should I be without her ? 

Lucifer. WTiat am I ? 

Cain. Dost thou love nothing ? 

Lucifer. What does thy God love ? 

Cain. All things, my father says ! but I confess 
I see it not in their allotment here. 

Lucifer. And, therefore, thou can'st not see if /love? 
Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
To which particular things ijihist melt like snows. 

Cain. Snows ! what are they ? 

Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 

What thy remoter ofTspring must encounter ; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no winter ! 

Cain. But dost thou not love something like thyself? 

Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself? 

Cam. Yes, but love more 

What makes my feelings more endurable, 
And is more than myself, because I love it. 

Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beautiful, 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautiful ! how can that be ? 

Lucifer. With time. 

Cain. But time has past, and hitherto 

Ev'n Adam and my mother both are fair : 
Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
But verv fair. 



CAIN. 23!i 

Lucifer. All that mnst pass away 

III tlicin and her. 

Cam. I'm sorry for it ; but 

Cannot conceive my love for lier the less. 
Anil wlicn her beauty disappears, methinks 
lie who creates all beauty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perisli such a work. 

Lucifer. 1 pity thee who lovest \v hat must perish. 

Cain. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 

Lucifer. And thy brother — 

Sits he not near thy heart ? 

Cain. ' Why should he not ? 

Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so does thy God. 

Cain. And so do I. 

Lucifer. 'Tis well and meekly done. 

Ccin. Meekly! 

LMcifer. He is the second born of flesh, 

And is his mother's favourite. 

Cain. Let him keep 

llcr favour, since the serpent was the first 
To win it. 

Lucifer. And his father's ? 

Cain. What is that 

To me ? should I not love that which all love? 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord, 
And bounteous planter of harr'd Paradise — 
He too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I ' 

Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have sci-n his angels. 

Cain. ' Rarely. 

Lucifer. But 

Sutficiently to see they love your brother: 
///*• sacrifices are acceptable. 

Cain. So be they 1 wherefore speak to me of this ? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere now. 

Cain. And if 

I have thought, why recall a thought that {he patues, 

as agilaleil) — Spirit I 
Here we are iu thy world : speak not of mine. 
Thou hast shown me wonders; thou hast shown me those 
.Mighty pre-Adamites who walk'd the earth 
Of which ours is the wreck ; thou hast pointed out 
Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
Is the dim and remote companion, in 
Infinity of life: thou hast shown me shadows 
Of iliat existence with the dreaded nan-e 
Wliich my sire brought us— Death ! thou hast shown me 

much — 
But not all : show me where Jehovah dwells, 



236 - CAIN. 

In his especial Paradise, — or thine : 
Will re is it? 

Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 
< ain. But ye 

Il-.ive some allotted dwelling — as all things; 
C ay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 
All temporary hreathing creatures their 
IV'fuliar element ; and things which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou say'st ; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
Ye do not dwell together ? 

Lucifer. No, we reign 

Together ; but our dwellings are asunder. 

Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! perchance 
An unity of purpose might make union 
In e'ements which now seem jarr'd in storms. 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
To separate.' Are ye not as brethren in 
Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 

Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 

Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain ; but were it not so, 
Is spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out ? 
Infinity with Immortality ? 
Jarring and turning space to misery — 
For what ? 

Lucifer. To reign. 

Cain. ^ Did ye not tell me that 

Ye are both eternal ? 

Lucifer. Yea ! 

Cain. And what I have seen, 

Yon blue immensity, is boundless? 

Lucifer. Ay. 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — is there not 
Enough ? — why should ye diflFer ? 

Lucifer. We both reign. 

Cain. But one of you makes evil. 

Lucifer. Which ? 

Cain. Thoul for 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 

Lucifer. And why not he who made ? / made ye not ; 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave us 

His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

Lucifer. I could show thee 

Both ; but the time will come thou shalt see one 
Of them for evermore. 

Caiu. And why not now ? 

Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to gatner 



237 



The little I have shown thee into caloi 

And clear thought ; and thou wouliist go on aspiring 

To the great doul)le Mysteries ! the Iwo Principles J ^* 

And gaze upon them on their secret thrones! 

Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 

Ei'her of these would be for thee to perish! 

Caiii. And let me perish, so 1 see them ! 

Lucifer. There 

The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
liut thou wouidst only perish, and r.ot see tliem ; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cain. Of death? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Tiien I dread it less. 

Now that I know it leads to someihmg definite. 

Lucifer. And now 1 will convey tliee to thy world. 
Where thou shall multiply the race of Adam, 
Kat, drink, toil, triMiible, laugli, wecj), slct^p and die. 

Cain. And to what end have I hehclil these things 
Which thou hast shown me ? 

Lucifer. Didst thou not require 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in what 1 show'd, 
Taught tlicc lo know thfself ? 

Cam. Alas ! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nuthingness; 
Deqiiuaili that science to thy children, and 
'Twill spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Iliiughty spirit ! 

Thou speak'st it proudly; hut thyself, tiiougli pi-oud, 
Hast a superior. 

Lucifer. No ! by heaven, which He 

Holds, and the ahvss, and the immensity 
Of worhlji and life, which I hold with him — No I 
I have a victor — true ; hut no suiterior. 
Homage he has from all — but none from me : 
I battle it against him, as 1 batiK-d 
In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
And the imfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
And the iiitermirial)ie realms of space, 
And tlie infinity of endless ages, 
All, all, will I dispute ! Ami world by world* 
And star by star, and universe by universe, 
Sl.Jl tremble in the ba' .'"i-, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if e\' i it shiiU cease. 
Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'dl 
And what can quench our immortality, 
Our mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 



238 CAIN 

Evil; but what will be the good he gi^res ? 
Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 
The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
And scarce born mortals, what have been his gifts 
To you already, in your little world ?' ' 

Cain. But few ! and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With aae, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Of his celestial boons to you and yours. 
Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
Evil springs from him, do not name it 7nine, 
Till ye Know better its true fount ; and judge 
Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of youx existence, such as it must be. 
0>»<! giooa gift has the fatal apple given — 
Your reason : — let it not be over-sway'd 
By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
"Gainst all external sense and inward feeling : 
Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
In your own bosom — where the outward fails ; 
So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 

IThey disappem 



ACT III. SCENE I. 

The Earth near Eden, as in Act I. 

Enter Cain and Adah. 

Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain. 

Cain. I will ; but wherefore ? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress I 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it 
For our child's canopy ? 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
Fitting to sbadow slumber. 

Cain. Ay, the last — 

And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[ They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose leavei strewn beneath t^cm. 



Cain- i39 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

How hRiiutifully parted! No: you sliall not 
Ki^s liiiM, at loast not now : he will wake soon— 
llis hour of mid-day rest is iiciiriy over; 
Hut it were pity to disturb iiiin till 
Tis closed. 

Cain. You liavc said well ; I will contain 
My liLNirt till tlieii. ile smiles, and sleeps! — Sleep on 
And iinile, thou little younij inheritor 
Of a world Scarce less young: sleep on, and smile ! 
Thine are the hours and days when l)oth are cheerinti; 
And innocent! thou hast not phick'd the fruit- 
Thou know'st not thou art naked? Must ihe .ime 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
Which were not mine or thine ? But now sleep on ! 
His cheeks arc reddening into deeper smiles. 
Anil shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them : 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out although in slumber. He must dream — • 
Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
.My disinherited hoy ! 'Tis but a dream ; 
For never more thy self, thy sons, nor fathers, 
Sh;dl walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 

Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our loa 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise? 
Can we not make another ? 

Cain. Where ? 

Adah. Here, or 

Whcie'er thou wilt: where'er thou art I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted \lAen. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
.\nil Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, * 

To whom we owe so much besides our birth .' 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the debts we owe her. 

Adah. Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee hence, 
ILith sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
Tlit^ ])romised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
N i>ioi)s, thou say'st. of past and present worlds, 
W >iuid iiavc com|)oscd thy mind into the calm 
<M a coniented knowledge; but I see 
Tliy guide hath done thee evil: still I thank 1 im, 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath Kiven thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon ? 

Adah. 'Tis scarcel" 

Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
To me, hut only hours upon ihe sun. 

Cain. And yet I have approach'd than sun, and seen 



MO CAIN. 

Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light; and worlds he never lit : methought 
Years had roU'd o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
And measures it by that which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
I had hehela the immemorial works 
Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 
I had horrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
From its immensity ; but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
That I was nothing! 

Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 

Jehovah said not that. 

Cain. No : he contents him 

With making us the nothing which we are ; 
And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and mmortahty, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

Adah. Thou know'st— 

Ev'n for our parents' error. 

Cain. "What is that 

To us? they sinn'd, then Ve^ them die! 

Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought 
Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would / could die for them, so they might live! 

Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
Might satiate the insatiable of life, 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might never taste of death nor human sorrow. 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 

Adah. How know we that some such atonement ooe 
day 
May not redeem our race*? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
Were there ? why, we are innocent : what have we 
Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 

Adah Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : thy woids 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Cain. Then leave me ! 

ACth. Nevei, 

Though thy God left thee. 
Cain. Say, what have we here ? 

Adah, Two altars, which our brother Abel made 



CAIN. 24 1 

During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A s.ncrifice to Cod on thy return. 

Cain. And how knew he, that / would be so ready 
With llie ))urnt offerings, which he daily brings 
NVitli a meek brow, whose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator? 

Adah. Surely, 'tis well done. 

tain. One altar may suffice ; / have no offering. 

Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and fruits, 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

Cain. I have toilM, and lill'd, and swealen in the sua 
According to the curse: — must I do more.' 
I'or what should I be gentle .' for a war 
With all the elements ere they will yield 
riie bread we eat .' For what must I be grateful ? 
For beii\g dust, and grovelling in the dust, 
Till I return to dust.' If I am nothing — 
For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, 
And seem well-pleased with pain ? For what sbotild X 
Be contrite? for my father's sin, already 
Kxpiale with what we all have undergone. 
And to be more than expiated by 
The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 
The germs of an eternal misery 
To myriads is within him ! better 'twere 
I snatch'd liim in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 
The rocks, than let him live to 

Adah.. Oh, my God ! 

Touch not the child — my child ! thy child ! Oh Cain I 

Cain Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the power 
Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 

Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 

Cain. I said, 

'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
That saying jars you, let us only say — 
'Twerc better that he never had been born. 

Adah. Oh, do not say so ! Where were then the joya 
The mother's joys of watchin^j, nourishing, 
And loving him ? Soft 1 he awakes. Sweet Enoch I 

[She goes to the ehili. 
Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 
Of strength, of bloom of beauty, and of joy, 
Uow like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 



242 CAIN. 

For then we are all alike ; is't not so, Cain ? 

Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
When thou art gentle. Love us then, my Cain 1 
And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
Look ' ho\y he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine. 
To hail his father : while his little form 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 
As yet lie hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, aud thine own too. 

Cain. Bless thee, bey 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

Adah. It shall. 

Surely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile's suljtlety. 

Cain. Of that I doubt ; 

But bless him ne'er the less. 

Adah. Our brother comes. 

Cain. Thy brother Abel. 

Enter Abei.. 

Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 

Tlie peace of God be on thee 1 

Cain. Abel, hail ! 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast been wandering 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our father ? 

Cain. No. 

Abel. Why then commune with him ? he may be 
A foe to the Most High. 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Jlost High been so — if so you term him ? 

Abel. Term Him? your words are strangp to-day, my 
brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adak. Farewell, my Cain ; 

But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and holiness ! 

[^Exit Adah, with her child, 

Abel. Where hast thou been ? 

Cain. I know not. 

Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 



CAIN. 24S 

Cam. The dead, 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds tliat were and arc — 
A whirlwind of such uvcrwlip.lining tilings, 
Suns, unions, and cartlis, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
Singing in thunder round inc, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 

Ahfil. Thine eyes are fl.ishini; witli unnatural light — r 
Thy check is flush'd with au unnatural iiue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
What may this mean I 

Cain. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

^bel. Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed together. 

Cain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 

.-tbel. Both well, I hope, 

Cain. But thee the better : I care not for that ; , 

Thou art fitter for his worship than I am ; 
Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
At least, without me. 

Abel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
If, as my elder, I revered thee not 
And in the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 'tis thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'«r 

Asserted it. 

Able. The more my grief; I pray thee 

To do so now : thy soul seems labouring in 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 

Cain. No ; 

Nothing can calm me more. Calm! say I? Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave me I 
Or lei me leave thee to thy pious purposes. 

AbeL Neither; we must perform our task together. 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must be so Nvell, then, 

What shall I do .> 

Abel. Choose one of those two altara. 

Cain. Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
And stone. 

Abel. Choose thou ! 

Cain. I have chosen. 

Jbcl. 'Tis the higheet, 

And suits thee as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine ? 



244 CAIN. 

Abel. Behold them here— 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 
A shepherd's humble offerings. 

Cain. I have no flock's; 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 

[//e gathers fi'uit. 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 

They dress their altars, and kindle a flame upon 
them. 

Abel. My brother as the elder offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

Cain. No — I am new to this ; lead thou the way, 
And 1 will follow — as I may. 

Abel (kneeling). ' Oh God! 

Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us. 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost as ihey might have been, 
Had not the justice been so teiiiper'd with 
The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 

Compared with our great crimes : — Sole Lord of light! 
Of good, and glory, and eternity ; 
Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing tan err, except to some good end 
Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfiil'd — 
Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
First of the first-born flocks — an offering 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee ? — but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Ev'n to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 

Cain (standing erect during this speech). Spirit I irlut* 
e'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good. 
Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil 
Jehovah upon earth I and God in heaven ! 
\nd it may be with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works : — 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers. 
Take them ! If thou must be induced with altarSi 
And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ; 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, which smoke* 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 



CAIN. 24S 

In sanguinary incense to thy skies 

Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 

And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 

I spread them on now offers in the face 

Of the broad sun which ripen. d them, may seem 

Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 

Sufford in limb or life, and rather form 

A sample of thy works, than supplication 

To look or. ours ! If a shrine without victim, 

And altar without gore, may win ihy favour, 

Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it, 

He is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks nothing 

Which must be won by kneeling: if he's evil, 

Strike liini ! thou art omnipotent, and may'st— 

For what can he oppose ? If he be good. 

Strike iiim, or spare liim, as thou wilt ! since all 

Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 

To have no power themselves, save in thy will : ' 

And whether that be good or ill I know not. 

Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 

Omnipotence, but merely to endure 

Its mandate; which thus far I have endured. 

[^Thefire upon the altar of Abel kindles into a column 
of the brightest flame, and ascends to heaven.} 
while a whirlwind throws down the altar o/C\iti, 
and scatters the fruits abroad upon the earth. 

Abel {kneeling). Oh, brother, pray ! Jehovah's wroth 
with thee. 

Cain. Why so ? 

Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 

Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them return ; 
Their seed will bear fresh fiuit there ere the summer: 
Thy burnt flesh-offering prospers better ; see 
How heaven licks up the flames, when thick with blood! 

Abel. Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 
But make another of thine own before 
It is too late. 

Cain. I will build no more altars. 

Nor suffer any. — 

Abel {rising). Cain 1 what meanest thou ? 

Cain. To cast down yon vile flatterer of the clouds^ 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull prayers — 
Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids, 
Which fed on milk, to be dcstroy'd in blood. 

Abel {opposing him). Thou shalt not :— add not impious 
works to impious 
Words! let that altar stand — 'tis hallow'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

Cam. Hill 



246 CAIN. 

His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 

The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood, 

To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 

Still yearn for their dead offspring ? or the pangs 

Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 

Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 

Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 

Abel. Brother, give back 1 thou shalt not touch my altar 
With violence : if that thou wilt adopt it, 
To try another sacrifice, 'tis thine. 

Cain. Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
That sacrifice may be 

Abel. What mean'st thou ? 

Cain, Give- 

Give way ! — thy God loves blood; then look to it :— 
Give way, ere he hath more\ 

Abel. In Am great name, 

I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyself. 
Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
Its native soil : — else 

Abel {opposing him). I love God far more 
Than life. 

Cain (striking him with a brand, on the temples, which 
he snatches from the altar.) 

Then take thv life unto thy God, 
Since he loves life. 

Able (falls). What hast thou done, brother ? 

Cain. Brother! 

Able. Oh, God 1 receive thy servAnt, and 

Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
He did — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; and tell 
Poor Zillah 

Cain (after a moment's stupefaction). My hand ! 'tis 
all red, and with — 
What ? 

[^A longjMUse. — Looking slowly round. 
Where am I ? alone ! Where's Abel ? where 
Cain ? Can it be that I am he .' My brother, 
Awake !— why liest thou so on the green earth ? 
'Tis not the hour of slumber ; — why so pale ? 

What, hast thou ! thou wert full of life this morn ! 

Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 

Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ay, why 

Wouldst tbou oppose me ? This is a mockery ; 

And only done to daunt me : — 'twas a blow — 

And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir! 

Why. so — that's well ! — thou breath'st ! breathe upon me 1 

Ob, God ' Oh. God 



248 CiyN. 

As if ho would not havo assorted his 

Inoxorable clnini without m}' aid. 

I »m nwnko at last — a drvary dream 

Uuth maddcn'd mo ; — but he shall ne'er awake ! 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, a7id Zillah. 

.■Id'im. A voice of woe from Zillah brings lue here.— 
What do I see? — 'Tis true ! — My son ! — my son ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[To Eve. 

I'l'e. Oil ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
Arc in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
Jeliovab ! this is punishment beyond 
A motiicr's sin, to take him from me! 

Adam. Who 

Or what hath done this deed? — speak, Cain, since thou 
Wert jTiesent; was it some more hostile angel, 
\V!io walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

Eve. Ah ! a livid light 
Breaks through, as from a (huuder-iloud! yon brand> 
Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from olf the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with 

Adam. Speak, my son I 

Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are, 
'I'hat we are not more miserable slill. 

Adah. Sipeak, Cain ! and say it was not thou! 

Eve. It was. 

I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 

Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
^^ bich grief wrings from our parent. 

Ei'c. . Hear, Johovab! 
May the eternal serpent's curse be on him I 
K'lr be was fitlT for his seed than ours. 
Mav all his days be desolate. May 

Adah. Holdl 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
And my betroth'd. 

Eve He hath left thee uo brother— 

Zillah uo husband — me no son ! — for thus 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us! as be broke 

That of his nature, in yon Oh death ! death! 

Why didst thou not take me, who first incurr'd thM? 
thou not so now ? 

Eve ! let not thii, 



CAIN. 247 

Abel {very faintly). What's he who speaks of God? 

Cain. Thy murderer. 

Abel. Then may God forgive him ! Cain 

Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
Now. [Abel diet, 

Cain. And I none ! — Who makes me brotherless ? 
His eyes are open ! then he is not dead 1 
Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
His lips too, are apart; why then he breathes ! 
And yet I feel it not — His heart ! — his heart ! — 

Let me see, doth it beat ? methinks No ! — no! 

This is a vision, else I am become 

The native of another and worse world. 

The earth swims round me : — what is this ? — 'tis wet ; 

\_Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at it. 
And yet there are no dews ! 'Tis blood — my blood — 
My brother's and my own ! and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with life, 
Sincel have taken life from my own flesh? 
But he cannot be dead! — Is silence death? 
No; he will wake: then let me watch by him. 
Life can not be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
What shall 1 say to him ? — My brother ! — No : 
He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zillak. 

Zillah. I heard a heavy sound ; what can it be ? 
Tis Cain ; and watching by my husband. What 
Dost thou theie, brother ? Doth he sleep ? Oh heaven 1 
What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No, no! 
't is not blood; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel ! what's this ? — who hath done this ? He moves not j 
He breathes not : and his hands drop down from mine 
With stony lifelessness ! Ah ! cruel Cain ! 
Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him. 
Thou wert the stronger, and should'st have stepp'din 
Between him and aggression ! Father !— Eve ! — 
Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 

l^Exit Zillah, calliny on her Parents, ifc. 
Cain (solus). And who hath brought him there?— I— 
who abhor 
The name of Death so deeply, that the thought 
Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — 1 have led him here, and given 
Mv brother to his cold and still embrace, 



OAiN. 249 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety I 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us 
And now that it l)egins, let it l)e borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

Eve Cpoinling to Cain). Ilis will \ ! the will of yOK 
incarnate s|)irit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life l)c on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er tlie wilderness, like us 
From Edi-n, till his cliildren do by him 
As he did i)y his brother! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his path^ 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strcw'd 
With scorpions! May his dreams be of his victim ! 
His waking a continual dread of death ! f 

May the ckar river turn to blood as he 
Stoops down to stain them witn his raging lip! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die with ! 
And death itself wax something worse than death 
To him wiio first acquainted him with man I 
Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain, 
Througii all the coming myriads of mankind, 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou vvert their sire ! 
May the grass wither from thy feet! the woods 
Denv thee shelter! earth i home ! the dust 
A grave : the sun his light ! and heaven her God ! 

\lixit Eve. 
Adam. Cain ! get thee forth : we dwell no more together 

Depart ! and leave the deail to me 1 am 

Henceforth alone — we never umst meet more. 

Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father: do not 
Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 

Adam. I curse him nut : his spirit be his curse. 
Come. Zdlah ! 

Zillah, I must watch my liusband's corse. 

Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah 1 

Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 

And those lips once so warm — my heart ! my heart . 
\^Excu,nt Adam anil Zillah, weeping. 
Adah. Cahi ! thou hast heard, we must go forth. 1 an; / 

n-ady, 
So shall our children be. I will bear Eiioch, 
And you his sister. Ere the sun doclines 



250 JAim. 

Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
To me — thine own. 

Cain. Leave me ! 

Adah. Why, all have left thee. 

Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou ? Dost thou not 
fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this ? 

Adah. I fear 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from within exclaims, C&\n\ Cain! 

Adafi. It soundeth like an angel's tone. 

Enter the Angel of the Lord. 

Angel. Where is thy brother Abel ? 

Cain. Am I then 

My l)rotber's keeper ? 

Avgel. Cain 1 wliat hast thou done ? 

The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out, 
, Ev'n from the ground, unto the Lord ! — Now art thou 
Cursed from the earth, which open'd late her mouth 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it shall not 
Yield thee her strength ; a fugitive shalt thou 
l?e from this day, and vagabond on eaith ! 

Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear; 
Behold, thtiu drivest him from the face of earth, 
And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
'Twill come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
Shall slay him. 

Cain. Would they could ! but who are they 

Shall slay me ? Where are these on the lone earth 
As yet unpeopled .' 

Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 

Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor say 
That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in iny boy, and of his father. 

Angel. Then he would but be what his father is* 
bid not tlie milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now see'st so besmear'd with blood ? 
The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 
But it shall not he so — the Lord thy God 
And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
On Cain so that he may go forth in safety. 



CAIN. 2fi] 

Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shau 
Be taken on his head. Come hither! 

tain. What 

Wouhlst tliou with me ? 

Angel. To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as tliou hast done. 

Cain. No, let me die 1 

Anycl. It must not be. 

[^The Angel sets the mark on Cain's browm 

Cain. It burns 

My brow, l)ut nought to that which is within it. 
's tliere more ? let me meet it as I may. 

Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn from the 
womb, 
.\s the s^roiiiul tliou must henceforth till ; but he 
Timii slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 

Cain After the fall too soon was 1 begotten ; 
(•Ire yit my mother's mind subsided from 
Tlie serpent, ami my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
Tliat which 1 am, I am ; I did not seek 
I'or life, nor did 1 make myself; but could I 
\\'itli my own death redeem him from the dust— 
And why not so? let him return to day, 
.\n(l I lie ghastly, so shall be restored 
lly Gud the life to him beloved ? and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

Angel. Who shall heal murder? what is done is done; 
Go forth ! fulfil thy days I and be thy deeds 
Unlike the last 1 

[7%e Angkl disappears, 

Adah. He's gone, let us go forth ; 

I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he weeps fori 

And I who have shed blood can not shed tears ! 
Hut the four rivers'^ would not cleanse my soul. 
Tbink'st thou my boy will bear to look on me .' 

Adah. If I thought that he would not, I would — 

Cain 'interrupting her). No, 

No more- of threats: we have bad too many of them : 
Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
Let lis depart together. 

Cain. Oh I thou dead 

And everlasting witness! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art 
I know not ! but if thou secst what / am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell 1 
I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 



252 CAiiv 

I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, draia'd 

The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own, 

In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 

Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 

To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done 

For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 

The first grave yet dug for mortality. 

But who hath dug that grave .' Oh, earth ! Oh, earth I 

For all the fruits thou hast render'd to ihe, I 

Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 

[Adah stoops down and iisses the liodij of Pusex,. 

Jdah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother 
Has been thy lot 1 Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them : 
But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me. 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy Iturden with thee. 

Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way : 
'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 

Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and may our God 
Be thine 1 Now let us carry forth our children. 

Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
Have dried the fountain of a gentle race. 
Which might have graced his recent marriage couch, 
And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine, 
Uniting with our children Abel's offspring 1 
U Abell 

Adah. Peace be with him I 

CWa. Bmt with mt \ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
HOURS OF IDLENESS : 

A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED 



Virginibus cueriaque canto, — Horace, lib. iii. Ode 1. 
He whistled as Ue went, for want of thought. — Usydsm. 



PREFACE. 



In submiliing to the public eye the following collection, I have 
not only to combat the difficulties thut writers of verse generally 
^encounter, but may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding 
myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, 
more UNcfuUy employed. 

These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young 
man who has lately coiiipieted his nineteenth year. As they beai 
the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unne- 
cessary iufurmalion. Some few were written during the disad- 
vantages of illness and depression of spirits : under the former 
influence, " Cuildisii Rkcoi.lkctions," in particular, wero 
composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the v»ice 
of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable 
portion of Uiese poems has been privately printed, at the requesi 
and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the puiiiul 
and frequently injudicious admiration of the social circle is not 
the criterion by wliich poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, " to 
do greatly;" we must "dare grcaily, " and I hazarded my repr»- 
laiion and feelings in publishing this voluujc. " I have passed 
the Rubicon," and must stand or fall by the " cast of the die-" 
Jn the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur ; for, though 
not without solicitude for the fate of these eliu^ioiis, my expecta- 
tions are by no means sanguine. It is piobable that I may have 
dared much and done little ; for. in the words of Cowper, " it is 
one thing to write what may ulcase our friends, who, because 
they ore such, arc apt to be a iiUie biassed in our favour, and 
anotlier to write what may please every body ; because they who 
bu\e no connexion, or even knowledge of the autliur, will be sure 
to (ill d fault if they can." To the truth of this, however, I do 
not wholly subscribe : on the contrary, I feel convinced thu* 
lhe>« triSes will not be treated willi injustice. Their iiieiit, if 
they possess any, w ill be liberally allowed : their numerous faults 
OQ the other hand, cannot expect that favour which has been ilo- 



2S4 HOURS OF IDLENBS8. 

nlsA to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater 
•bility. 

I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I stu- 
died any particular model for imitation: some translations are 
given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces 
there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works 
I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty of 
intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an 
age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every 
subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, 
however, is not my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments 
ol indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me " to 
this sin :" little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. 
My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive from these 
productions ; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading 
leaves, or pluck a single additional ^prig from groves where I am, 
at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, 
to roVe a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I 
have not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so 
elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with 
genuine bards, who tiave enjoyed both these advantages. But 
they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from 
their productions ; while I shall expiate my rashness as an inter- 
loper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a 
very slight share of the former. I leave to others " virum voli. 
tare per ora." I look to the few who will hear with patience ' 
" dulce est desipere in loco." To the former worthies I resign, 
without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself 
with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst " the 
mob of gentlemen who write ;" — my readers must determine whe- 
ther I dare say " with ease," or the honour of a posthumoi.i 
page in " The Catalogue of Eoyal and Noble Authors," — a work 
to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmiicli as 
many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are 
thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily overshadows 
several voluminous productions of their illustrious bearers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I piftilish this first and last 
attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed 
many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of 
my own age the contents may aflbrd amusement : I trust they 
will, at least, be found liaimlcbS It is highly improbable, from 
mj" situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude 
myself a second time on the public ; nor, even, in the very 
doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to com- 
mit a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. 
Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine,' " That when 
a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, his meiit 
should be handsomely acknowledged,"^ can have little weight 
with verbal, and still less with periodical censors ; but were it 
otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and 
would rathe- incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, 
than triumph in honours granted solely to a title. 



HO0R8 OF IDLENESS. 255 

BPITAPII ON A FRIEND.' 

Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! 

Wliat fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier! 

What sighs re-ccho'd to thy parting breath, 

Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death 1 

Could tears retard the tyrant in his course : 

Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force ; 

Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 

Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 

Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 

Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. 

If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 

The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 

Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 

A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 

No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 

But living statues there are seen to weep ; 

Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 

Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 

What though thy sire lament his failing line, 

A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! 

Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer. 

Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 

But, who with me shall hold thy former place? 

Thine image, what new friendship can efface? 

Ah ! none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow. 

Time will assuage an infant brother's woe : 

To all, save one, is consolation known, 

While solitary friendship sighs alone. 

INS. 



A FRAGMENT. 



When, to their airy hall, ray fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride. 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's siiie ; 
Oh 1 may my shade behold no sculptured urns 
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! 
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone : 
My epitaph shall be my name alone ;■• 
If that with honour fail to crow n my clay, 
Oh ! may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
That, only that, shall single out the spot; 
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 

isos. 



_l 



256 HOURS OV lOLENI^SS. 

ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* 

" WliT*do;t thou build the hall, son of the winged days 7 Thou 
lookest down from thy tower to-day : yet a few years, and the blast 
of the deaert comes, it howls in thy empty court." — Ossian. 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
whistle ; 

Thou, the hall of niy fathers, art gone to decay 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 

Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. 

Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain," 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle. 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers. 
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd wreath: 

Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan^ slumbers ; 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ;' 
I'^or the safety of Edward and England they fell : 

My fathers 1 the tears of your country redress ye ; 

How you fought, how you died, stiU her annals can tell. 

On Marston,^ with Rupert,*" 'gainst traitors contending. 
Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field : 

For the rights of a monarch their country defending, 
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd." 

Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 

Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

That fame, and that memory, still wili he cherish ; 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown , 
liike you will he live, or like you will he perish : 

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own! 

.903. 



HOURS OF IDI.F.NKS!i. 2!>7 

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO IIFS SOUL WHEN 
DYING.'* 

[Animdla ! vaifiila, lilandula, 
Ho!<pc9 comesquc corporis, 
Que nunc abihis in loca — 
Pallidula, rii;i(la, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, daliis jocos?] 

Ah I gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, * 

Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne, 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more with wonted humour gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

AD LKSBIAM. 

Equal to Jove that youth must be — 

Greater than Jove he seems to me— 

Who, free from Jealousy's alarms. 

Securely views thy matchless charms, 

That cheek, whicli ever dimpling glows. 

That mouth, from whence sucli music flows, 

To him, alike, are always known, 

Reserved for him, and iiim alone. 

Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me, 

I cannot choose but look on thee; 

But, at the sight, my senses fly; 

I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die; 

Whilst trembling with a thousand fears. 

ParcJi'd to the throat my tongue adheres. 

My pulse heats quick, my l)rcath iieaves short, 

My limbs deny their sligiit support. 

Cold dews my pallid face o'erspruad, 

With deadly languor droops my head. 

My ears with tingling echoes ring, 

And life itself is on the wing; 

My eyes refuse the cheering light, 

Their orbs are veil'd in starless night: 

Such ])angs my nature sinks beneath, 

And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL 
AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

Hb who sublime in epic nnmljers roH'd, 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love. 

By Death's II unequal hand alike controU'd, 
Fit comra<ie8 in Elysian regions move! 



lp-=^^=^ » ■ ■ ■■ »■ — =— 

258 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
" Luctus de morte passeris." 
Yb, Cupids, droop each little head, 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread, 
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved 
* For he was gentle, and so true, 

Obedient to her call he flew, 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew. 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 

And softly fluttering here and there, 
He never sought to cleave the air, 
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care. 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
From whence he never can return, 
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 

Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave. 
From whom no earthly power can save 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow. 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow{ 
Thou art the cause of all her woe, 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 

TO EI,LEN. 

Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire; 
Still would 1 steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss : 
Nor then ray soul should sated be ; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever* 
Stili would we kiss, and kiss for ever; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavour : 
Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never I 



HOORS OP IDLENESS. 259 

TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. 

TO HIS LYlli;. 

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of Came and notes of fire ; 
To cclio, fri)m its rising swell, 
How heroes foujjlit and nations fell, 
When Atreus' sons advance to war, 
Oi Tyrian Ladmus roved afar; 
But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre leeuis to love alone : 
Fired >viih ihe hope of future fame, 
1 seek som/; nolder hero's name ; 
The dying chords are strung anew. 
To war, to war, my harp is due: 
With glowing strings, the epic straiu 
To Jove's great son 1 raise again; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds. 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire, 
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms 1 
Adieu tlie clang of war's alarms ! 
To other deeds my soul is strung ; 
And sweeter notes shall now he sung. 
My harj) shall all its powers reveal, 
To tell the tale niy heart must feel : 
Love, Love alone, my l\re shall claim. 
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 



ODE ilL 



'TwAS now the hour when Night had dhvea 

Her car half roimd yon sable heaven 

Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 

His arctic charge around the pole; 

While moiials, lost in gentle sleep, 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 

At this lone hour, the I'aphian hoy, 

Descending from the worlds of j>iy 

Quick to my gate directs his course, 

And knocks with all his little force. 

My visiois fled, alarm'il I lose — 

" SVhai stranger breaks my blest up ?" 

"Alas!" replies the wily child, 

In faltering accents sweetly mild, 

"A hapless infant here 1 roam. 

Far from my dear maternal Lome. 

Oh ! shield me Irom the winiiy blast I 

Tiie nightly storm is puuiitig tabi. 



260 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

No prowling robber lingers here ; 

A wandering baby who can fear ?" 

I heard his seeming artless tale, 

I heard his sighs upon the gale : - 

My breast was never pity's foe, 

But felt for all the baby's woe. 

I drew the bar, and by the light 

Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; 

His bow across his shoulders flung, 

And thence his fatal quiver hung 

( Ah ! little did I think the dart 

Would rankle soon within my heart), 

With care I tend my weary guest, 

His little fingers chill my breast ; 

His glossy curls, his azure wing ; 

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; 

His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm, 

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow. 

Than swift he siezed his slender bow ; — 

" 1 fain would know, my gentle host," 

He cried, " if this its strength has lost ; 

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews. 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies. 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies; 

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :— 

" My bow can still impel the shaft : 

'Tis firmly fix'd thy sighs reveal it ; 

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?" 



FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF 
iESCIlYLUS. - 

Great Jove, to whose almighty tluone 
Both gods and mortals homage pay, 

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 

Oft shall the sacred victim fall 

In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; 

My voice shall raise no iini)ious strain 

'Gainst liim who rules the sky and azure main. 
• * * ■ « • 

How diff'erent now thy joyless fate, 

Since first Hesicme thy bride, 
When placed aloft in godlike state, 

The blushing beauty by thy side. 



HOURS or IDLENESS. 



261 



Thou gat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, uor jove relentless frown' d.'* 

Harrow, Dec. I; I MO- 



STANZAS TO A LADY. 

WITH THE POKMS OF CAMOENS.'* 

This votive pledge of fond esteem. 

Perhaps, dear girl 1 for me thou'lt prize. 

It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
A theme we never can despise. 

Who blames it but the envious fool, 

The old and disaiipointed maid ; 
Or pupil of the prudish school, , 

In single sorrow dooni'd to fade ? 

Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read. 

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 
To thee in vain I shall not plead 

In pity for the jwet's woes. 

He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 

His was no faint fictitious flame: 
Like his, may love be thy reward, 

But not thy hapless fate the same." 

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 
Away with your fictions of flimsy rom.ince. 

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! 
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breaihing glance. 

Or the rapture which dwells on tlic first kiss of love. 

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow. 
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove ; 

From what blest inspiration your sounds would flow, 
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love I 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse. 

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove. 

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 
And try the effect of the first kiss of love ! 

I hate you, ve cold compositions of art ! 

Though prudes may condemn mc.an.l bigots reprove, 
I court the effusions that spring from the heart, 

Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. 



262 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

Your shepherds, your flocks those fantastical themes, 
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move: 

Arcadia displays but a region of dreams : 

What are visions like these to the first kiss of love ? 

Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his I)irt]i, 

From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove ; 

Some portion of paradise still is on earth, 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past- 
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove — . 

The dearest remembrance will still be the last. 
Our sweetest memorial, the tirst kiss of love. 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET.'^ 

Dorset I whose early steps with mine have stray'd, 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; 
Whom still affection taught me to defend. 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend, 
Though the harsh custom of our youthfnl band 
Bade thee obev, and gave me to command ; i" 
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
The gift of riches, and pride of power; 
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
Yet, Dorset, let not tliis seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade cnntiol. 
Though passive tutors,"' fi^arful to dispraise 
The titled child, Aviiose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes. 
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to tbee, — 
And even in spimjile boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
When these declare, "that pomj) alone should wait 
On one by birih predestined to be great; 
That hooks were only meant for drudging fools, 
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules ;" 
Be ieve them not ; — they point the path to shame, 
And seek to blast the honours of thy name. 
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng. 
Whose souls dihdain not to condemn the wrong ; 
Or 'f, amidst the coniriides of thy youth, 
Ntjne dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 
rtsk thine own heart: 'twill bid lliec, boy, forbear; 
For weli I know that virtue lingers there. 



HOURS or iniiBNEss. 1263 

Yes ! I have niark'd thee many a passing day, 
But now new scenes invite nie far away ; 
Yes! 1 have niark'd within ihat generous mind 
A soul, if well matured, to hlcss mankind. 
Ah! though myself, hy nature hauglity, wild, 
Whom Indiscretion hiiil'd hcrfavoiirite child; 
Though every error stam[)S me lor her own, 
And dooms my fall, I tain would fall alone; 
Tliough my proud heart no prece[it now can tame, 
I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, 
To gleam the lamhent meteor of an hour; 
To swell some peerage page in feeble jiride, 
With long-drawn names that grace no page besides 
Then share with titled crowds the cominon lot — 
in life just gazed nt, in thj grave forgot ; 
While nought di\i(les thee from the vulgar dead, 
Except the dull cold stone that hides tliy head, 
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald'? roll, 
That well eiHlihizon"d but neglected scroll. 
Where lords, nnhontiur'd, in the tomh may find 
One spot, to leave a worthless naine behind. 
There sleej), unnotice<i as the gloomy vaults 
That veil their dust, their lollies, and their fauUi, 
A race, with ohl aimorial lists o'erspread, 
In records destined never to he read. 
Fain wotdd I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
Exalted mon among the good and wise, 
A glorious anil a long career pursue. 
As first ill riiiik, the fiisl in talent too : 
Spurii every vice, each little meanness slum; 
Nut Fortune's minion, hut her nnhlesl son. 

Turn to the anmtls of a former day ; 
Bright are tl e deeds thine etirlier sires display. 

One. though a courtier, lived a man of worth. 
And cali'd, jiroud honsi ! the British drama forth** 
.Another view, not less renown'd for wit; 
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates lit; 
Bold in the tielil, and favoiir'd U\ the Nine 
In every splendid patt ordain'd to shine; 
Far, far distinguish'd from the L'litiei ing throng. 
The pride ol ))riiices, and the hoast of song-' 
Sue. I were thy fathers; thus prcjetvc their name; 
Not heir to titles i»nly, but to fai.ic. 
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, 
To me, this little scene of joys and wi.es ; 
Kaeh knell of Time now warns me to resign 
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine i 
'ike the rainh iw's hue, 
the ui'imentf flew ; 



264 UODKS OF IDLENESS. 

Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell j 
Alas ; they love not long, who love so well 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, 
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 

Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, 
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same spheifi^ 
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, 
May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 
We hence may meet, and pass each other by, 
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe. 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race; 
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, 
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice: 
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought. 
If these — but let me cease the lenghthen'd strain,-* 
Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain. 
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.* 



GRANTA. A Medlfy. 

Oh ! could Le Sage's" demon's gifts 

Be reahzed at my desire, 
, This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on St. Mary's spire. 

Then would, unroof d, old Granta's halll 
Pedantic inmates full display ; 

Fellows who dream on lawn or stallSf 
The price of venal votes to pay. 

Then would I view each rival wight, 
Petty and Falmerston survey ; 

Who canvass there with all their might, 
Against the next elective day.2* 



HOURS OK IDLENESS. 265 

Lo ! candidate and voters lie 

All luli'd in sloi'p, a goodly number: 
A race reiiowii'd for piety, 

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber. 

Lord n ,25 indeed, may not demur; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
They know prrfernient can occur 

But very seldom, — now and then. 

They know the Chancellor has got 

Some pretty livings iu disposal : 
Each liopes that one may be his lot, 

And tijer( fore smiles on his proposaL 

Now from the soporific scene 

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later. 

To view, unheeded and unseen. 
The studious sons of Alma Mater. 

There, in apartnu-nts small and damp, •" 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the miilniglit lamp ; 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

He surely well deserves to gain them, 

With all the honours «f his college, 
Who, striving hardly to obtain them, 

Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge « 

Who sacrifices hours of rest 

To scan i)recisely metres Attic ; 
Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic; 

Who reads false quantities in Seale,2< 

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 
Deprived of many a wtuilesome meal ; 

In barbarous Latin'-' doom'd to wrangtei 

Renouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring to the letter'd sage. 

The square of the hypothenuse.M 

Still, harmless are these occupations. 
That hurt none but the hapless student. 

Compared with other recreations. 

Which bring together the imprudent; 

Whose daring revels shock the sight. 

When vice and infaniy condiine, 
When drunkeiint^ss and dice invite. 

At every sense is stcep'd in wine. 



i66 H3TTRS OF IDLKNESS. 

Not so the methodistic crew, 

Who plans of reformation lay : 
Iri humble attitude they sue, 

And for the sins of others pray : 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 

Their exultation in their trial, 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

'Tis morn : — from these I turn my sight. 

What scene is this which meets the eye? 
A numerous crowd, array'd in white.^s 

Across the green in numbers fly. 

Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 

'Tis hush'd: what sounds are these I hear? 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the listening ear. 

To this is join'd the sacred song, 
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 

Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 

Our choir would scarcely be excused, 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 

All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners. 

If David when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads sing before WKlj 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended, — 
In furious mood he would have tore 'cm. 

The luckless Israelites, when taken 
By some inhuman tyrant's order, 

Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, 
On Babylonian river's border. 

Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 

Inspired by stratagen or fear, 
They might have set their hearts at ease, 

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 

But if I scribble longer now. 

The deuce a soul will stay to read : 
My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 

'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. 

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires I 

No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires : 

The reader's tired, and so am I. 



IMOb 



BOUaS OF IDLKN£SS. 26} 

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND 

SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 

Oh I mihi prxteritos refcrat si Jupiter annos. — Virgil. 

Yk scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past; 

Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, 
And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last -.so 

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; 

How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though liope is denied! 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 

The streams where we swam, the fields where we fought;3' 
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, 

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd. 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ;32 

Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded, 
Where, as Zanga,^-* I trod on Alonzo o'crthrowu ; 

While to swell my young pride, such ap])lauses resounded 
I fancied that Mossop^^ himself was outshone. 

Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, 
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason deprived; 

Till, fired by loud plaudits and self adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.^* 

Te dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret yea I 
Unfadcd your memory dwells in my breast ; 

Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you : 
Your pleasure may still be in fancy possest. 

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me. 
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll! 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through the course of the yrars which await me, 
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, 
" Ob! such were the days which my infancy knew '." 

1806. 



268 HOURS OK IDLENESS. 

TOM . 

Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire 
With bright but mild affection shine, 

Though they might kindle less desire, 
Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 

We must admire, but still despair; 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 

When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth," 
So much perfection in thee shone, 

Shefear'd that, too divine for earth. 

The skies might claim thee for their own: 

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
I^est angels might dispute the prize, 

She bade a secret lightning lurk 
Within those once celestial eyes. 

These might the boldest sylph appal. 
When gleaming with meridian blaze ; 

Thy beauty must enrapture all ; 

But who can dare thine aruent gaze ? 

'Tis said that Berenice's hair 
In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 

But they would ne'er permit thee there. 
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 

For did those eyes as planets roll, 

Thy sister lights would scarce appear: 

E'en suns, which systems now control. 
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere, 

18A 



TO WOMAN. 



Woman I experience might have told me 

That all must love thee who behold thee; 

Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are nought : 

But, placed in all thy charms before me, 

All 1 forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh memory ! thou choicest blessing 

When join'd with hope, when still possessing; 

But how much cursed by every lover 

V\ hen liope is fled and passion's over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver. 

How prompt are striplings to believe herl 



BOCHS OF IDLENESS. 

How throbs the pulse wlica first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue, 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows ! 

How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth I 

Fondly we liope 'twill last for aye, 

When lo! she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

" Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."3* 



TO M. S. G. 

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgWtj 

Extend not your anger to sleep; 
For in visions alone your aftection can live, — 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast. 

Shed o'er me your languor benign; 
Should the dream of tu-iiight but resemble the last, 

What rapture celestial is mine ! 

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, 

Alortalily's emblem is given , 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of hraven ! 

Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 

Nor deem me too happy in this; 
If I sin in my dream, 1 alone for it now. 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

Though m visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smil* 

Oh ! think not my penance deficient ! 
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguil*. 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



S69 



TO MARY, 

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE." 

This faint resemblance of thy charms 
Though strong as mortal art could give, 

My constant heart of fear disarms. 
Revives my hopes, and bids me live, 

Here I can trace tiie locks of gold 

Which round tby snowy forehead wave, 

The cheeks which sprung from beauty's rooaldy 
The lips which made me beauty's slave. 



270 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

Here T can trace — ah, no ! that eye, 

Whose azure floats in hquid fire, 
Must all the painter's art defy, 

And bid him from the task retire. 

Here I behold its beauteous hue ; 

But Where's the beam so sweetly straying, 
Which gave a lustre to its blue, 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ? 

Sweet copy ' far more dear to me, 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
Than all the living forms could be. 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear. 

Lest time might shake my wavering seal, 
■ Unconscious that her image there 
Held every sense in fast control. 

Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill cheerj 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise { 
In life's last conflict 'twill appear. 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life. 

Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew. 

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu ! 

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart. 

In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
The chance of an hour may command us to part, 

Or death disunite us in love's last adieu 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen breast, 
Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may renew :" 

With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt, 
Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth 

Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they 
grew; 

They flourish awhile in the season of truth. 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 

Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue? 

Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey. 
Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu I 



BOURS OV IDLENESA 27i 

Oh 1 who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 

From cities to caves of the forest lie flew: 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind; 

The mountains rcverbcratelove's last adieu! 

Now hate rules a heart whicli in love's easy chains 
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew ; 

Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins ; 
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel 1 
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, 

Who laughs at the jiang that he never cafi feel, 
And dreads nut the anguish of love's last adieu ! 

Youth flics, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue: 
He spreads his you;ig wing, he retires v.ith the blast; 

The shroud of aft'ection is love's last adieu ! 

[n this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea declares that some penance is due ; 

From him whi has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu 1 

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew: 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; 
His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu 1 



DAM^ETAS. 



In law an infant,38 and in years a boy, 

In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 

From every seuic of shame and virtue wean'd; 

In lies an adept, in deceit a liend ; 

Versed in liypocrisy, while yet a child ; 

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild; 

Woman his duiie, his heedless friend a tool ; 

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school 

Dama:tas ran through all the ma'ze of sin, 

And found the goal when others just begin: 

Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 

And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks hi» former chain. 

And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 



272 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



TO MARION. 

Marion ! why that pensive brow f 

What disgust to life hast thou? 

Change that discontented air ; 

Frowns become not one so fair. 

'Tis not love distuibs thy rest, 

Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 

He in dimpling smiles appears, 

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 

Or bends the languid eyehd down, 

But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire, 

Some will love, and all admire ; 

While that icy aspect chill us, 

Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 

Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile. 

Smile at least, or seem to smile. 

Eyes like thine were never meant 

To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; 

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 

Stdl in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse: 

She blushes, curt'sies, frowns — in short she 

Dreads lest the subject should transport me; 

\nd flying off iu search of reason. 

Brings prudence back in proper season. 

All I shall therefore say (whate'er 

I think, is neither here nor there) 

Is, that such lips, of looks endearing. 

Were form'd for better things than sueering i 

Of soothing compliments divested, 

Advice at least disinterested ; 

Such is my artless song to thee. 

From all the flow of flattery free; 

Counsel like mine is as a brother's 

My heart is given to some others ; 

That is to say, unskill'd by cozen. 

It shares itself among a dozen. 

Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee blight not 

This warning though it may delight not; 

And, lest my precepts be displeasing 

To those who think remonstrance teasing. 

At once I'll tell thee our opinion 

Concerning woman's soft dominion : 

Howe'er we gaze with admiration 

On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 

Uowe'er the flowing locks attract us, 

Howe'er these beauties may distract us, 



HOOES OF IOLKNE8S. 279 

Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 
These canuot ILv our souls to love: 
It is not too severe a stricture 
To say ihey form a pretty picture; 
But would'st thou see the secret chain 
Which binds us in your humble traia, 
To bail you queen of all creation, 
Know, in a word, 'tis ANiMATion. 



OSCA OF ALVA. 



How sweetly shines through azure sides 
The lamp of heaven on Lura's shore; 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
And hear the din of arms no more. 

But often has you rolling moon 
On Alva's casques of silver piay'd ; 

And view'd, at midnight's silent noon, 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : 

And on the crimson'd rocks beneath. 
Which scrowl o'er ocean's sullen flow 

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 
She saw the gasping warrior low : 

While many an eye which ne'er again 
Could mark the rising orb of day, 

Turn'd feebly from the gory plain. 
Beheld in death her lading ruy. 

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light; 

But now she glinimer'd from above, 
A sad, funereal torch of night 

Faded is Alva's noble race, 

And gray her towers are seen afar; 
No more her heroes urge the chase. 

Or roll the crimson tide of war 

But who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her towers resound no steps of man. 

They echo to the gale alone. 

And when that gale is fierce and high, 
A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 

It rises hoarsely thnnigli the sky, 
And vibrates o'er the mouldering walL 



2?4 . HOURS OF IDLENESS 

Yes, when the ebbing tempest sighs, 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 

But theie no more his banners rise, 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 

The vassals round iheir cliieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

They feast upon the mountain deer, 
The pibroch raised its piercing note : 

To gladden more their highland cheer. 
The strains in martial numbers float 

And they who heard the war-notes wild, 
Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 

Should play before the hero's child, 
While he should lead the tartan train. 

Another year is quickly past, 

And Angus hails another son ; 
His natal day is like the last, 

Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow. 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind. 
The boys in childhood chased the roe. 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 

But ere their years of youth are o'er. 
They mingle in the ranks cf war; 

They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 
And send the whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair 
Wildly it gtream'd along the gale; 

But Allan's looks were bright and fair, 
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul. 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth: 
Allan had early learn'd control, 

And smooih his words had been from youth. 

Both, both were brav«: the Saxon spear 
>\as shiver' oft beneaih their bteeJ ; 

And Oscar's bosom scoin'd to fear, 
But Oscar's bosom knew to leel ; 

While Allan's soul belied his form, 
Unworthy with such charms to dwell. 

Keen as the ligl.tning ot the storm. 
On foes his di adlj venceance fell. 



BOORS or IDLENESS. 27& 

ttom high Soutbannon's distant tourer 

Arrived a your.g and nohle dame ; 
With Kennetli's lands to form her dower, 

Gienalvon's blue-eyed daughter came; 

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 

And Angus on his Oscar smiled ; 
It soothed the fa.hcr's feudal pride 

Thus to obtain Glenulvon's child. 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial songl 
In joyous strains the voices float, 

And still the coral peal prolong. 

See how the heroes' blood-red pluniei 

Assembled wave in Alva's hall; 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 

Attending on their cliicftain's call. 

It is not war their aid demands, 
" The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 

But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late : 

Is this a bridegroom's ardeVit flame? 
While thronging guests and ladies wait, 

Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 

At length vonng Allan jniu'd the bride: 
" Why comes not Oscar, " Angus said* 

" Is he not here ?" the youth replied ; 
" With me he roved not o'er the glade: 

•' Perchance forgetful of the day, 

'Tis his to chase the bounding roej 
Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 

Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow.'' 

" Oh, no '.*' the anguish'd sire rejoin 'd, 
" Nor chase, nor wave my hoy delay; 

Would he to Mora seem unkind ; 

Would ought to her impede his way ? 

" Oh, scorch, yc chiefs ! oh, search aroundP 

Allan, with these through Alva fly ? 
Till Oscar, till my son is found, 

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 

All is confusion — through the Tale 

The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 
It rises on the murmuring gale, 

Till night expands her dusky ningti 



276 Bovns ov idleness. 

It breaks the stillness of the night, 

But echoes through her shades in vain ; 

It sounds through morning's misty light, 
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 

Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief, 
His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 

" Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heaven 
Restore the prop of sinking age I 

Or if that hope no more is given, 
Yield his assassin to my rage. 

" Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; 

Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 
With him his frantic sire may die ! 

" Yet he may live, — away, despair ! 

Be calm, my soul I he yet may live ; 
T'arraign ray fate, my voice forbear! 

God 1 my impious prayer forgive. 

" What, if he live for nie no more, 

1 sink forgotten in the dust. 
The hope of Alva's age is o'er ; 

Alas! can pangs like these be just ?" 

Thus did the hapless parent mourn. 
Till Time, which soothes severest woe 

Had bade serenity return. 

And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 

For still some latent hope survived 
That Oscar might once more appear; 

His hope now droop'd and now revived, 
Till Time had told a tedious year. 

Days roU'd along, the orb of light 
Again had run his destined race ; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 
And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

For youthful Allan still remain'd, 

And now his father's only joy : 
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 

For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 
She thought that Oscar low was laid, 

And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 
If Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claim'd his faithless botom'a care. 



UOUUS UK IDLENESS. 27i 

And Angus !>niil, if one year more 

In fruitless liope was pass'd away, 
His fondest scruples should be o'er, 

And he would name their nuptial day. 

Slow roliV^ the moons, but blest at last 

Arrived the dearly destined morn; 
The year of anxious trembling past, 

What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn I 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! • 

In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

Again the cian. in festive crowd, 

Throng tniough the gate of Alva's hall 

The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
And all their former joy recall. 

But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth? 

Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 

The blue Uamcs curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form. 

And tall his plume of gory red ; 
His voice is like the rising storm, 

But light and trackless is liis tread. 

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'di 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound. 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd; 

And Angus' cheek with wonder glows. 
And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 

" Old man 1" he cried, " this pledge is done; 

Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me 
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee, 

" While all around is mirth and joy. 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot. 
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy ? 

Say, why should Oscar be forgot?" 

" Alas !" the hapless sire replied. 

The big tear starting as he spoke, 
"When Oscar left my hall, or died. 

This aged hcari was almost broke. 



278 Houas of idleness. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ; 

And Allan is my last resource, 

Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 

" 'Tis well," replied the stranger stern, 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye : 

** Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

" Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
'Would call, thy Oscar might return; 
Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
For him thy beltane yet may burn.*" 

' Fill high the bowl the table round, 

We will not claim the pledge by stealth 
With wine let every cup be crowu'd; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

" With all ray soul," old Angus said. 
And fill'd his goblet to the brim ; 

" Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall find a son like him." 

" Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 

But why does Allan trembling stand ? 
Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue; 

The drops of death each other chase 
Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high. 
And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

" And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here ? 

If thus affection's strength prevails. 
What might we not expect from fear ?" 

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 
" Would Oscar now could share our mirth If' 

Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 

" 'Tis he! I hear. my murderer's voice!" 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form, 

" A murderer's voice !" tlie roof replies, 
And deeply swells the biirsiing storm. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 279 

The taperd wink, the chieftains shrink, 
The stranger's gone, — amidst tiie crew 

A form was seen in tartan green. 
And tall the shade terrific grew. 

His waist was bound with a broad belt round, 

His phime of sable stream'd on high ; 
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there 

And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 

And thrice he smiled, ^f ith his eye so wild, 

On Angus bending low the knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, 

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, 

The thunders through the welkin ring, 
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the stormi 

Was boine on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased, 

Who lies upon the stony floor? 
Obhvion press'd old Angus' breast, 

At length his iife-pulse throbs once raore. 

" Away, away! let the leech essay 

To pour the light on Allan's eyes:" 
His sand is done, — his race is run ; 

Oh ! never more shall Allan rise 

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay. 

His locks are lifted by the gale : 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 

And whence the dreadful stranger came, 

Or ft ho, no mortal wight can tell ; 
But no one doubts the form of flame. 

For Alva's sons knew Oscar welL 

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand. 

Exulting demons wing'd his dart; 
While Envy waved her burning brand, 

And pour'd her venom round his heart. 

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow ; 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low. 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora's eye could Allan move. 

She bade his wounded pride rebel; 
Alas I that eyes which Ufam'dwith love 

Should urge the soul to deeds of helL 



280 Hooas OF idleness. 

Lo 1 seest thou not a lonely tomb 
Which rises o'er a warrior dead? 

It glimmers through the twilight gloom t 
Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 

Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; 

And o'er his corse no banners wave. 

For they were stain' d with kindred blood 

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard. 
Shall Allen's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 

The song is glory's chief reward, 

But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 
No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand. 

His harp in shuddering chords would break. 

No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse. 
Shall sound his glories high in air : 

A dying fathei's bitter curse, 
A brother's death-groan echoes there. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS, 

A PAEAPHRASK FROAI THE «NEID, LIB. IX. 

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, 

Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; 

Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, 

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field: 

From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave. 

And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 

To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 

With him Euryalus sustains the post ; 

No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy 

Though few the seasons of his J-outhful life, 

As yet a novice in the martial strife, 

'Twas his, with beauty valour's gifts to share — 

A soul heroic, as his form was fair ; 

These burn with one pure flame of generous love; 

In peace, in war, united still they move ; 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 

And now combined they hold their nightly guard. 

" Vhat god," cxclaim'd the first, " instils this fire ? 
Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
My labouring soul, with juixious thought oppress'd, 
Abhors this station of in'^icniuis rest; 



HOURS OK IDLENESS. SBl 

The love of fame with this can ill accord, 
Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
Seest thou yon cainp, with torches twinkling dim, 
Where drunken sluniliers wrap each lazy limb ? 
Where confidence and ease the watcli disdain, 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief 
Our troops and lca>iers mourn their absent chief: 
Now could the gifis and promised prize be thine 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine), 
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
Methinks, an easy patli perchance were found 1 
Which past, I speed my way to Fallas' walls, 
And lead i£neas from Evander's halls." 

With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy;-^ 
" These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone? 
Must all the fame, the peril, be ihine own ? ^ 

Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 
As one unfit to share the toils of war? 
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught; 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; 
Not thus, when llion fell by heavenly hate, 
I track'd ^neas through the walks of fate: 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim nry gory spear. 
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, 
And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting hreath : 
The price of honour is the sleep of death." 

Then Nisus, — " Calm thy bosom's fond alarms. 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olynipus' throne! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth. 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth 1 
But should 1 fall, — and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance,— 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low, 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve. 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve. 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me hack by force^ 
Or wealth redeem from foes my cajxive corse; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny, 
If the in spoiler's power my ashes lie. 



282 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

Thy pious cave may raise a simple tomb, 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
Who braved what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 
" In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus ; " it scorns control ! 
Hence, let us haste !" — their brother guards arose 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran. 
And luli'd alike the cares of brute and man; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agieed, 
An instant mersage to thtir piirice decreed ; 
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unaued by fear, 
The faithful pair before, the throne appear : 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command, 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 

" With patience" (thus Ilyrtacides began) 
" Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam, 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow, 
W^e'U bend our course to yonder mountain's brow 
W^ere Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight, 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by niglit : 
Then shall .^neas in his pride return. 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring'su rn ; 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way; 
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray. 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 



IIOUUS OK IDLENESS. 283 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
Moved l)Y the speech, Alellies liere exclaim'd, — 
*' \e parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Siill dwrllsthe Dardan spirit in the boy; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, 
Yours is the godlike act, be yours ihc praise ; 
In galiant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive," 
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd. 
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast; 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 
" What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
Can we bestow, which you may not despise? 
Our deities the first best boon have given — 
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth 
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 
iEneas and Ascanius shall combine ^ 

To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 
By those I'enates w ho my country love ! 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear. 
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own. 
Saved from Aritba's stately domes o'erthrown ! 
My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
Nor left such l)ow Is an Argive robber's prey : 
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine; 
Two talents polish'd from tlie glittering mine ; 
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave, 
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : 
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
When great yEneas wears llesperia's crown, 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, 
Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames. 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames. 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway 
The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
Arc near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 



284 HOURS OF inr.ENEss. 

Alike through life esteciri'd, thou godlike boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in i)eace my joy," 

To him Euryalus : — " No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown 
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : 
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 
Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
Her feeble age from dangers of the main; 
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unknown the secret enterprise I brave, 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave; 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 
No fainting mother's lips havepress'd my cheeks 
By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now: 
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 
In thee her much-loved child may live again ; 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame.' 
Strnck with a filial care so deeply felt, 
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt. 
Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; 
Such love was his, and such had been his woe. 
" All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied. 
" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's-*' style but wanting to the dame. 
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred oath— 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmtst troth, 
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
For friends to envy and for foes to feel : 
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows. 
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows, 
Arm'd, thence they go, while Jill th'assembled train^ 
To aid their cause, implore tije gods in vain. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. ' 235 

More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place: 
His prayers he sends; hut what can prayers avail, 
l.oit in the murmurs of the sighing gale. 

The trench is pass'd, and, favour'cl hy the night, 
Through sleeping foes tliey wheel their wary flight. 
M hen shall the sleep of many a foe he o'er? 
Alas ! some slumhcr who shall wake no more ! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, arc seen ; 
And tlowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between 
ISacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine, 
■ '• Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prepare, 
With me the conquest and the labour share: 
Here lies our jiath ; lest any iiand arise, 
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies 
I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youtli repress'd. 
And pierced proud Rhamnes througli his pajiting breast: 
Stretch'd at his ease, th' incauii-jus king reposed; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes iiad closed; 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, 
His omens more than augur's skill evince : 
But he, who thus foretoni t]:9 fate of all, 
Could not avert his own untimely iau. 
Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, 
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell ; 
The charioteer along his courser's sides 
Expires, the steel his sevcr'd neck divides; 
And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead : 
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasppfig head ; 
From the swoU'n veins the blackening torrents pour; 
Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 
Young Larayrus and Lamus next expire, 
And gay Scrranus, till'd with youthful fire ; 
Half the long night in childish games was pass'd; 
LuU'd l)y the potent grape, he slept at last : 
Ah 1 happier far had he the morn survey'd. 
And till Aurora'^'dawn his skill display'd. 

In slaugbter'd fold, the keepers lost in sleep, 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
'Mid the sad flock at dead of night he prowls, 
With murder glutted, aild in carnage rolls: 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams ; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant loams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 



286 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel. 

Yet wakeful Rhaesus sees the threatening steel ; 

His coward breast behind a jar he hides, 

And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 

Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 

The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 

Through wine and blood, coinniingling as they flow, 

One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 

Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 

Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 

There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 

Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herliage feed : 

Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm. 

Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm : 

" Hence let us haste, the dangerous i)ath is pass'd; 

Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last: 

Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 

Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

With silver arms, with various art emboss'd, 
What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, 
They leave regardless ! yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes 
The gilded harness Rhamncs' coursers felt. 
The gems which stud tlie monarch's golden belt: 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend, 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course : 
While the slow foot their tardy march delay, 
The knights impatient, spur along the way : 
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped : 
Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, 
When, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 
The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, 
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
Volscens with question loud the pair alarms: — 
" Stand, stragglers ! stand! why early thus in arms .' 
From whence, to whom .'" — He meets with no reply. 
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : 
The thicket's depth with hurried pace tliey tread. 
While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 



HOCRS OF IDLENESS. 287 

Kuryrtius his heavy spoils impede, 

II10 boiitcbs and windini; turns his steps mislead; 

Hill Nisiis scours along tiie forest's maze 

To «licre Laliiiiis' steeds in safety graze, 

Then liai'kw'iird o'er llie plain his eyes extend, 

(.'n every siile tiiey seek liis absent friend. 

" O Gud ! my boy," lie cries, " of me bereft, 

III what impending perils art thou left!" 

Listening lie niiia — above the waving trees, 

Tuniiiltiious voices swell the passing breeze; 

Tlie war-cry rises, tliumlcring hoofs around 

Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 

Ai^aiii he turns, of footsteps hear the noise ; 

The sound elates, the sight his hopes destroys; 

The hajiless boy a rutliuii train surround, 

Mhile lengthening shades his weary way confound; 

Him with loud shouts the furious kr.ights pursue, 

Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 

M'hat can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dar^f 

Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 

What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 

Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 

His life a votive ransom nobly give, 

Or die with him for whom he wished to live ? 

Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 

On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : — 

" Goddi ss serene, transcending every star! 

Queen of the sky, w hose beams are seen afar ! 

By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, 

When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove; 

If e'er myself, or sire, have soiiglii to grace 

Thine altars with the produce of the chase, 

.^peed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 

To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 

Thus having siiid, the hissing dart he llung; 

Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung; 

The thirsty point in Snlmo's entrails lay, 

Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd his on the clay : 

He sobs, he dies, — the trooji in wild amaze. 

Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 

While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples rivCB) 

A second shaft with equal force is driven. 

Fierce Volscens rolls around bis lowering eyes 

Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 

Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall : 

"Thou youth accurst, thy life snail pay for all!" 

Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 

And, raging, on the hoy defenceless flew. 

Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals. 

Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; 



288 HOURS OSf IDLENESS. 

Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies: 
" Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on rae alone : 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest ! 
He couid not — durst not — lo 1 the guile confestl 
AL', d.l was mine, — his early fate suspend; 
He oniy loved too well his hapless friend: 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er liis breast: 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower; 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
And lingering beauty hovers ronud the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost ; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe; 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow ; 
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
Li viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found. 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved — 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace. 

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire. 
No future day shall see your names expire, 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome I 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. 
When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The bieast where love was wont to glow, 
What mind can stem the stormy surge 

Which rolls tiie tide of huiuan woe ? 



IIUUUS UK IDLBNKUS. 289 

The hope of praise, the rlreail of shame. 
Can ruusc the tortured breast no morvii 

The wild desire, the guilty flame, 
Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching hreast; 
If thus thou contest in disguise, 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have giveoi 

But never from tbv golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire! 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 

Awaiies an all-consuming tire: r 

Ye racking (liiu;)ts ! yc jealous fears 1 

With others wage internal war; 
Repentance, source of tuiure tears, 

l"'rom me be ever distant far ! 

May no distraciing tlioughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love! 
May all the hours be wing'd with joy. 

Which hover faitliful hearts above I 
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine 

May I with some fond lover sigh, 
Whose heart will mingle pure with min^^ 

With me to live, with me to die. 

My native soil ; beloved before. 

Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er may I (piii thy rocky shore, 

A hapless b.inisb'd wretch to roam I 
This very day, this very hour, 

May I resign this fleeting breath I 
Nor quit my silent humble bower; 

A doom to me far worse than death. 

Have I not beard the exile's sigh, 

And seen the exile's silent tear. 
Through ilislant climes conderan'd toff, 

A pensive weary wanderer here ? 
Ah! hapless dame \''^ no sire bewails. 

No friend thy wretched fate deplore*. 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy step; within a stranger'.-i doors. 



290 HOUKS OF IDLENESS. 

Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 

To fair aftection'a truth unknown, 
Bids her he fomlly loves depart, 

Unpitie^^,, helpless, and alone; 
Who ne'er unlocks witli silver key*' 

The milder treasures of his soul, — 
May such a triend he far from me, 

And ocean's storms hetween us rolll 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGB 
EXAMINATION. 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus ■'•* his am[)le front subliinc iiprears : 
Placed oil his chair of state, he seems a god, 
While Sojihs and rreslimeu ireiuble at his nod. 
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome; 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plod in matheinatic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried. 
Though little versed in any art l)eside; 
Who scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critics ken. 
What though he knows not how his fathers hied. 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead. 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance^ 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France : 
Though marviUing at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet will he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made. 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunis the deathless fame. 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class honours, medals, fellowships, await: 
Or e'en perhaps the declamation prize, 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes, 
But lo 1 no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope. 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
Th' Athenian's •*-5 glowing style, or TuUy's fire, 
A manner clear or warm is useless since 
We do not try by speaking to convince. 
Be other orators of pleasing proud : 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd t 



aiilils Ui'' lUl.K^•^;^s. 

Our gravity i)rcfers the mutterina; tone, 
A ])roi)cr mixture of the squeak and groan : 
Ni> borrow'd grace of action must been seen, 
The slightest motion would displease the Dean ;** 
Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes to obtain the promised cap 
Must in one posture stand, and de'er look up 
Nor stop, l)ut rattle over every word — 
No matter wliat, so he can not be heard. 
Thus lei him hurry on, nor think to rest: 
Who speaks the fastest sure to speak the best; 
Who uttcis most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science tliese, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; ,. 

Where on Cam's sedgy bank supine they lie 
Unknown, unhonor'd live, unwept for die ; 
Dull as the pictures \vhich adorn their halls, 
They think all learning fix'd within their -walls, 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise. 
All modern arts afl'ecting to despise ; 
Yet prizing Uentley's, Ijiuiick's, or Porson's note, 
More than the verse on which the critics wrote: 
Vain as their honours, lieavy as their ale, " 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale; 
Til friendship dead, though not untaught to feel 
W'hcn self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they couit the lord of power, 
Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; 
To hfm, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, 
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
But sliould a storm o'erwliclm him with disgrace, 
They'd fly to seek the next who fili'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures guard I 
Such iS their practice, such is their reward! 
Tlvis much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 

SwKET girl ! though only once we met. 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
And though we ne'er may meet again, 
Rcmemljrance will thy form retain, 
I would not say, " 1 love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will: 



HOUKS OF IDLENESS. 

. vain to drive thee from my breast, 
My thoughts are more and more represti 
In vain I check the rising sighs, 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke, 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood dealt, 

And tells a tale it never feels : 

Deceit the guilty lips impart. 

And hush the mandates of the heart; 

But soul's interpreters, the eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed, 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed. 

No spirit, from within, reproved us, 

Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 

Though what they utter' d 1 repress, 

Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess; 

For as on thee my memcry ponders, 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at. least, I'll say. 

Thy form appears through night, through dayi 

Awake, with it my fancy teems, 

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams: 

The vision charms the hours away, 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray. 

For breaking slumbers of delight, 

Which makes me wish for endless night. 

Qince, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 

?hall joy or woe ray steps await, ^ 

Tempted by love, by storms beset, 

Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas! again no more we meet, 
No more our former looks repeat ; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
^ May heaven so guard my lovely quaker, 
That anguish never can o'ertake her ; 
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker I 
Oh ! may the ha])py mortal, fated 
To be, by dearest ties, related. 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover 1 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 'tis to feel the restless woe, 
Which stings the soul with vain regret, 
Of him who never can forget !" 



HOORS OF IDLENESS. 

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 

l>«I.IVBBKD PREVIOUS TO TUK FKUKORMANCK OF " TUB WHk 
OF FOUTUNK" ATA PUIVATK THKATRE.'" 

.Since the refinement of tliis polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, 
Which stamp'd disgrace on a:l an author writ ; 
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, 
Nor dare to call the hliisli from Beauty's cheek; 
Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame, 
Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 
Others appear more conscious of defect : 
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, 
In all the arts of scenic action old ; 
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear; '' 

To-night you throng to witness the debut 
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try; 
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly ; 
Failing in this our first attempt to soar, 
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 
Not one poor trembkr only fear betrays. 
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praiae^ 
But all our dramatis persona; wait 
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. 
No venal views our progress can retard, 
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward: 
For these, each Ilcro all his power displays, 
Each timid Heroine shrinks ticfore your gaze. 
Surely the last will some protection find ; 
None to the softer se.\ can prove unkind : 
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 
The sternest censor to the fair must yield. 
Yet, should our feeble eflforts nought avail, 
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail, 
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live. 
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

f 
^ THE AHTHCE OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOW- 

■" y ING REPLY. 

Oh factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth 

Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 

What though our " nation's foes" lament the fate, 

With generous feeling, of the good aiMl great, 

Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 

Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ? 

When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 

Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 

Pity her dewy wings before him spread, 

For noble spirits "' war not with the dead ;" 

His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, 

As all his errors sluniber'd in the grave ; 

He sunk, an xVtlas Ijending 'nealh the weight 

Of cares o'erwhehning our conflicting state : 

When, lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, 

Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 

He, too, is falFn, who Britain's loss supplied, 

With him our fast-reviving hopes have died; 

Not one great people only raise liis urn, 

All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 

" These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 

To give the palm where Justice points its due;" 

Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail. 

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 

Fox 1 o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, 

Whose dear remains in houour'd marble sleep ; 

For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 

While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 

Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine. 

Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign ; 

Which Envy, wearing Cantlour's sacred mask. 

For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask.'is 



THE TEAR. 



'* O lachrj'inarum fons, tcnero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater 
Felix 1 in imo qui seatenteni 

Pectore te, pia Nympha, scnsit." — Grap, 

When Friendship or Love our sympathies move, 
When Truth in a glance should appear. 

The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile. 
Bat the test of affection's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile. 

To mask detestation or fear ; 
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye 

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. 



IIOV'KS OK lUi.KMi.sa. 29( 

^'i'(l Cliarity'sglow, to us mortals below, 

slu>\v!, ilic soul from barbarity clear; 
I i»i:i()asbMiii will melt where this virtue is felt, 

Ami its (lew is (litfused in a Tear. 

Tlic man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, 

'I hrougli billows Atlantic to steer, 
As lie bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave. 

The green sparkles bright with a Tear 

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath 

111 Glory's romantic career ; 
15ut hi; raises the foe when in battle laid low. 

And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

If with higli-bounding pride he return to bis bride, 

Kciiouiicing the gore-crimsonVl spear, 
All his toils arc repaid when embracing the maid, 

From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth!*" seat of Friendship and Truth, 
Where love chased eacli fast-fleetiiig year, 

Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd, 
Dulthy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 

riiough my vows I can pour to my Mary no more. 

My Mary to Love once so dear ; 
In the shade of her bower I remember the hour 

She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

r.y anoiher posscst, may she live ever blest 5 

Her name still my heart must revere; 
U lib a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, 

.Viid forgive her deceit with a Tear. 

Yo friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, 

This hope to my breast is most near; 
If again we shall meet in this iiirul retreat, 

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

\\ ben my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, 

And my corse shall recline on its bier, 
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume. 

Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow the splendour of woe. 

Which the children of vanity rear; 
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name ; 

All 1 ask — all I wish is a Tear. 



296 HOCKS OF IDLENESS. 

LACHIN Y GAIR.50 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes. 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love ; 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements war; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing founUina, 

1 sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.*^ 

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ; 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the piaid;^' 
0^ ui <;ftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd 

A» ..ally I strode through the pine-cover'd glade. 
I so ■, lit not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the brighi polar star; 
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?'' 
Purely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car: 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Ill-starr'd,^^ though brave, did no vision's foreboding 

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ?" 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,^^ 

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 

You rest with your clan in the caves of Uraemar;^* 
The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number, 

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have roll'd on. Loch na Garr, since I left you, 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again: 
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you, 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar : 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 

Tiie steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Gair* 



TO ROMANCE. 
Pauknt of golden dreams, Romance! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
Wlio leail'st along, in airy dance. 

Thy votive train of girls and boys; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 297 

At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth ; 
No more I tr^ad thy mystic round, 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

Whose eyes tiirough rays immortal rollj 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue ; 
When virgins seem no longer vain. 

And even woman's smiles are true. 

And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thy hall of clouds descend ? 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, ^ 

A Pylades^'^ in every friend ? 
But leave at once thy realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairy elves; 
Confess that woman's false as fair. 

And friends have feeling for — themselvesl 

With shame I own I've felt thy sway : 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er, 
No more thy precepts I obey. 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye, 

And think that eye to truth was dear 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear ! 

Romance ! disgusted with deceit, ' 

Far from thy motly court I fly 
Where Affectation liolds her seat. 

And sickly Sensibility; 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any pangs excepting thine ; 
Who turns aside from real woe, 

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, array 'd m wceda, 
Who heaves with thee her simple? sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
And call tiiy sylvan female choir, 

To mourn a swain for ever gone. 
Who once could glow witli equal fire, 

But bends not now before thy throue. 



898 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 

On all occasions swiftly flow ; 
Whose hosoms heave with fancied feare, 

With fancied flames and plirensy"glow 
Say, will you mourn my al)sent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train ? 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a synipatliciic strain. 

Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view, 

Where unlaraented you must lie: 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen. 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather 
Where you and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas ! must perish altogether. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES 

SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOll, COMTL^INtNO THAT OMI 
OF HIS DESCRIPTIOXS WAS KATUEU TOO WAKMLY DRAWM. 

" But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should condemn me for printing a aecond edition; 
If good Madam Scjuiutuni my worlc sliould abuse, 
May I venture to give her a sinickof niy muse I 

New Bath Guide, 

Candour compels me, Becher l^'^ to commend 
The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 
For tills wild error which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart: 
Can youtli then hush the dictates of the heart ? 
Preempts of prudence curb, but can't control, 
The fierce emotions of the flowing sonl. 
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, 
Limpifi? Decorum lingers-far behind : 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstrlpt and vanquish'd in the mental chase. 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove: 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power» 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow, 
To paint a l)ang tlic auHmr ne'er can know I 



HOURS OK IDLENESS. 899 

The artless Helicon T boast is youth ; — 

My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple truth. 

Far be't from me the " virgin's mind " to "taint:" 

Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 

The maid wiiose virgin breast is void of guile, 

\Vliose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 

Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 

Firm in hi-r virtue's st;enj;tii, yet not severe — 

She wiioni a conscious grace shall thus refine, 

Will ne'er ha " tainted " by a strain of mine. 

But for the nymph whose premature desires 

Torment her bosom with unholy fires, 

No net lo snare her willing heart is spread ; 

She would have fallen, though she ue'er had read. 

For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 

Wliose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 

Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 

The light effusions of a heedless boy. 

I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 

Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud : 

Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 

Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY." 

" It iithe voice of jears that are gone ! they roll before me, with all 
their deeds." — Ossian. 

Nkwstead ! fast-falling, oncc-rcsplcndent dome I 
Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's''* pride! 

(»f warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide. 

Hair to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall 
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state: 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaidtcd hall, 
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 

No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord, 
In grim array the crimson cross*^ demand; 

Or gay assemble roui-.d the festive board; 
Their cliief's retainers, an immortal band: 

Else might inspirirfg Fancy's magic eye 

Retrace their progress tbrougli the lapse of tiliie« 

Marking each ardent \outh, ordain'd to die. 
A votive pilgiim in Judea's cUme. 



300 HOURS OF IDLENKBS. 

But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; 

Ilis feudal realm iu other regions lay : 
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Yes ! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view, 

Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found, 
Or innocence from stern oppression flew 

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl j 

And Superstition's cr.mes, of various dyes, 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay. 

In sainted fame the sacred father's grew. 
Nor raised their pious but to pray. 

Where now the bats their waveriiig wings extend 
Soon as the gloaming^ spreads her waning shade, 

The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
Or matin orisons*^' to Mary paid. 

Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, iu a line, succeed ; 
Religion's charter their protecting shield. 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls. 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; 

Another Henry'''- the kind gift recalls. 
And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 

Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer; 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode, 
To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. 

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain. 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din! 

The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. 
High crested banners wave thy walls within. 

Of changing sentmels the distant hum. 

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, 

The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 
Unite in concert with increased alarms. 

An abbey once, a regal fortress"^ now, • 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers, 
War's dread machines o'crhang thy threatening brow, 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 



|! 



nOUKS OF IDLENESS. 301 

Ah vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, 
Th(>iii;li oft leimised, l)y guile o'crcomes the brave; 

His tliioiigiiig loi's opijfcss the faitlifiil liege, 
HeljclliDii's recking standards o'er him wave. 

Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ; 
Unconquer'd still, his falcliioii there he wields, 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 

Still in that hour the warrior wished to strew 
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave; 

But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 

rrembling, she snatch'd him^ from th' unequal strife, 

In other fields the torrent to repel ; 
For nobler combats, here, reserved his life, 

To lead the band where godlike Falkland's fell. <- 

From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, 
While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 

Far dift'erent incense now ascends to heaven. 
Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 

O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspreadj 
Ran ack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould: 

From ruffian fanes escape not e'en the dead. 
Raked from repose in search for buried gold. 

llush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, 
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death; 

No more be strikes the quivering chords with fire, 
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey. 

Retire ; the clamour of the fight is o'er ; 
Silence again resumes her awful sway, 

And sable Horror guards the massy door. 

Ilrre Desolation holds her dreary court: 

\\ hat satellites declare her dismal reign ! 
Shrieking their dirge, ill-cnnen'd birds resort, 

To flit tlici ■.£\\s in the lioaiy fane. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
The clouds of anarchy from Hriiain's skiei 

Tlif lierco usiiipcr spi iv> liis naiive lit II, 
And Nature iriiiniplis ii!> the i)rant dies. 



a02 hours of idleness. 

With storms she M'elcomes his expiring groans ; 

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath, 
Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones, 

Loathingfis the offering of so dark a death. 

The legal ruler *'' now resumes the helm, 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state; 

Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm. 
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. 

The gloomy tenants, Newstead ! of thy cells, 
Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
• Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 

"Vassals, within thy hospitable pale. 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 

And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 

And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note. 

The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 
What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase! 

The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ;68 
Exulting shouts announce the finish' d race. 

Ah happy days ! too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure : 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 

From these descending, sons to sires succeed : 
Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ? 

Another chief impels the foaming steed. 
Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine I 
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ! 

The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers ; 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep : 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 

These, these he views, and views them but to weep. 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret : 
Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 

Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget. 
But warm his bosom with impassion 'd glow. 



HOCRS OP IDLENESS. 303 

f et he prefers thee to the gilded domes 

Of gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great 
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp aiid mossy tombs. 

Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, 

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; 
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 

And bless thy future as thy former day. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 

" I cannot but remcinljer such things were. 

And were most dear to me." Macbbtb. 

When slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 

Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins; 

When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 

And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 

Not to the aching frame alone confin'd, 

Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 

What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe, 

i'lid shuddering Nature shrink l)eneath the blow, 

With Resignation wage relentless strife. 

While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 

Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour 

Remembrance sheds around her genial power. 

Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given. 

When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven, 

Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 

Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 

As when through clouds that pour the .«ummer storra 

The orl) of day unveils his distant form 

Gilds with faint beams ihe crystal dews of rain, 

And dimly twinkles o'(^r the watery plain ; ^ 

Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 

The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 

Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 

To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 

Still rules my senses with unbounded sway. 

The past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought. 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields. 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields : 
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view* 
f') which I long have bade a last adieu! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
Friends lost to me for aye, except iu dreams $ 



304 HOUK<i OF IDLENESS. 

Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 

Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 

Some who yet urge the same" scholastic course 

Of early science, future fame the source 

Who, still contending in the studious race, 

In quick rotation fill the senior place. 

These with a thousand visions now unite. 

To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. 

Ida! blest spot, where Science holds her reign 

How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train! 

Briglit in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 

Again I mingle with thy playful quire; 

Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 

Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same; 

Through winding paths along the glade, I trace 

The social smile of every welcome face ; 

My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy or woe, 

Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe. 

Our feuds dissolved, hut not my friendship past :-« 

I bless the former, and forgive the last. 

Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breas^ 

To love a stranger, friendship made me blest; — 

Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth. 

When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 

Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, 

And check each impulse with prudential rein ; 

When all we feel our honest souls disclose — 

In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 

No varnish'd tale the lips of youth repeat, 

No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 

Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years. 

Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 

When now the boy is ripen'd into man. 

His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan; 

Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, 

Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; 

Still to assent, and never to deny — 

A patron's praise can well reward the lie: 

And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 

Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 

Although against that word his heart rebel, 

And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes like this ! not mine the task 
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
Let keener bards dchght in satire's sting; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. ZOi 

WarnM by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 
She hush'd her young resentment, aud forgave; 
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
PoMPOsus' virtues are but known to few : 
1 never fear'd the young usurper's nod. 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
\\\\o sliare the converse of a college hall, 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again; 
Soon must her early song for ever cease, 
Aud all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remember'd be the joyous band, 
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ; 
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
Tlieir tirst adviser, and their last resort ; 
Nor shrunk beneath the ppstart pedant's frown, 
Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
Who, thus transplanted from his father's school'^ 
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise, 
The dear preceptor of my early days ; 
Pkobus,!''-' the pride of science, and the boast, 
To Ida now, alas ! for ever lost. 
With him, for years, we search'd the classic pagfl, 
.\nd fear'd the master, though we loved the sage i 
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat, 
From learning's labour is the blest retreat. 
PoMPOscs fills his magisterial chair; 
I'oMPoscs governs, — but, my muse, forbear: 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot! 
No more his mention shall my verse degrade, — 
To him my tribute is a^eady paid. 

High, through those elms, with hoary branches crown'^ 
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round 
There Science, from her favour'd seat, stirveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train, 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain 
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue; 
Aepcat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide suu, 
In rival bands, between the wickets run. 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 



306 HOUKS UK inLCNESS. 

But these with slower steps direct their way, 

Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray ; 

While yonder few search out some green retreat, 

And arbours shade them from the summer heat: 

Others again, a pert and lively crew, 

Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed iu vieWf 

With frolic quaint their antic jesls expose, 

And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 

Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 

Tradition treasures for a futnre day : 

*' 'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought^ 

And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought ; 

Here have we fled before superior might, 

And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 

While thus our souls with early passions swell, 

In lingering tones resounds the distant bell; 

Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 

And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 

No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 

But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 

There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's name 

Secures its owner's academic fame ; 

Here mingling view the names of sire and son— 

The one long graved, the other just begun : 

These shall survive alike when son and sire 

Beneath one common stroke of fate expire :' 

Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 

Denied in death a monumental stone, 

^Vhilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 

The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 

And here my name, and many an early friend's, 

Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 

Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race. 

Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, 

Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 

Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law t 

And now, in turn, possess the reins of power, 

To rule, the little tyrants of an hour ; — 

Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day, 

They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 

"And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, 

And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 

Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled^ 

Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avaird;7l 

Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell. 

And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 

And here one night aliroad they dared to roam. 

While bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home ;" — 

While thus they speak, the hour must soon drrlTe, 

When names of these, like ours, alone survive: 



HOURS OK 1DLKNKJ.S. 307 

yet a few years, one general wreck will \vl»elin 
The famt remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race ! though now we meet no morQ^ 
One last long look on what wc were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Throuiili splendirt circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
VVlieri! folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
I pItingHd to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish ! if chance some well-rcmember'd face, 
Some old companion of my early race, 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest J«y, 
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found: 
The smiles of l>eauty, — (for, alas ! I've known 
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)-— 
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear 
Could hardly charm me, wiien that friend was near: 
My thoughts bewiUlcr'd in the fond surprise, 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes; 
I saw the sprightly wand'rers p(iur along, 
I saw and join'il again the joyous throng; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love.^ 

Yet, why should I alone with such delight, 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
Is tliere no cause beyond the common claim 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name ? 
Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear, 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home- 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee— 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern death forbaile my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care. 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own P'^ 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
What sister's gentle ki.>^s has prest my cheek? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiles collectcrl round inc seem; 



M8 HOURS OF lOLENKSS. 

While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; 
I hear again, — hut ah ! no brother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way, 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine^ 
I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
M'hat then remains ? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
And none more dear than Ida's social band, 

Alonzo !74 best and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise; 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh 1 in the promise of thy early youth, 
If hope anticipate the words of truth. 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom 1 lived supremely blest, 
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
Together waited in our tutor's hall ; 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or, plunging from the green declining shore, 
Our plaint limbs the bouyant billows bore ; 
In every element, unchanged, the same, 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy 1 
Davus,75 the harbinger of childish joy ; 
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember, in the factious strife, 
The lustic's musket aim'd against my life. 76 
High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilst 1, ill co;iil)at wiili .inotlier foe, 
Foiiglu on uiicimscious of ili' iin|)en(iiiig blow; 



BOVB8 OF IDLENESS. 309 

Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensil)le to fear ; 
Disann'd anci baffled by your conquering hand, 
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand : 
An act like this, can simple thanks repay ? 
Or all the laliours of a grateful lay ? 
Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed. 
That instant, Davos, it deser^•es to bleed. 

Lycus !'" on me thy claims arc justly great : 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate. 
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
Tlic feeble efforts of my Icngthen'd song. 
Well can^t thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
l.Ycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
When time at lengtli matures thy growing years, 
How wilt thou tower above lliy fellow peers! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free. 
With honour' s soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair Eurvalus'* pass by unsung ? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung : 
What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
That name is yet embalin'd within my heart ; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
We once were friends, — I'll think we are so stilL 
A form unmatcli'd in nature's partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 
Nor seek for g.lory in the tented field ; 
To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
Thy Boid shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply, in poiish'd courts might be thy seat. 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit : 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile. 
Would make that breast with indignation burn, 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spanit 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate t 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hale; 
The world aoiuire thee, and thy friends adore:— 
Ambition's slave alone would toil for rnorc. 

Now last, but nearest of the social band, 
See honest, open, Kencruus Clror^ stand) 



310 HOURS or IDLENESS. 

With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scen«^ 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene, 
On the same day our studious race begun, 
On the same day our studious race was run ; 
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career. 
Thus side by side we strove for many a year ; 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife : 
As speakers*" each supports an equal name. 
And crowds allow to both a partial fame : 
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, 
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide, 
Yet candour's self compels me now to own, 
Justice awards it to my friend alone. 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tearl 
Drooping she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, 
To trace the hours which never can return ; 
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
As infant laurels round my head were twined, 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song,8i 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng ; 
Or when my first harangue received applause, 
His sage instruction the primeval cause. 
What gratitde to him my soul possest, 
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast I 
For all my humble fame, to him alone 
The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 
Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, 
These young effusions of my early days, 
To him my muse her noblest strain would give: 
The song might perish, but the theme might lire. 
Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 
His honour'd name requires no vain display : 
By every son of grateful Ida blest. 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
A fame beyond the glories of the proud. 
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida I not yet exhausted is the theme, 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain I 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain 1 
Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 
This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 
To me a silent and a sweet eroplot, 



HOURS or IDLBNKSS. 311 

While future hope and fear alike unknown, 
I think witli pleasure on the past alone 
Yes. to the last alone my heart confine, 
And chase the phantom of what one was mine. 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy subside 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide; 
Siili may tliy blooming sons thy name rever, 
Smile in thy bower, but quit tliee with a tear; — 
lliat tear, ])crliaps, the fouflesl which will flow, 
O'ei their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along, 
I he feeble veterans of some former throng, 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd* 
Are swept for ever from this busy world; 
li'evolve the fleetiiifr moiiicnls of your youth, 
\\ bile Care as yet withheld her venoin'd tooth, 
Say if reincmbrance days like these endears "" 

Heyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
Say, can aml'ition's fever'd dream bestow 
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe? 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son. 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys) 
Kecall one scene so much beloved to view, 
As those where Youth her garland twined foi you? 
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age 
You turn witii faltering hanti life's varied page; 
Peruse the record of your days on earth, 
Unsullied only where it marks your birth; 
Si ill lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf, 
Aral blot with tears the sable lines of grief ; 
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, 
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 
Hut bless the scroll which fairer words adorn. 
Traced by the losy finger of the morn ; 
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, 
And Love, without his pinion,^ smiled on youth. 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 

A> IMITATKlN OK MA':rn KKSON S OSSIAN.*' 

Drak are the rlay of youth ! Age dwells on their remem> 
brnnce through the niisi of time. In the twilight he 
recnlls the suimy hours of morn. He lifts his spear with 
Irrnibling hand. " Not thus feebly did I raise the steel 
Scforr mv fathers !" Past is the rare of lierocR ! i ut their 



312 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

fame rises on the harp ; their souls ride on the wings of 
the wind ; they hear the sound through the sighs of the 
storm, and rejoice in their hail of clouds ! Such is Calmar. 
The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks down 
from eddying tempests ; he rolls his form in the whirl- 
wind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. 
His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's 
sens had fled before his angry spear ; but mild was the 
eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: 
th?' ♦treamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was 
th- ^h of his soul: his thoughts were given to friend- 
sh;;' -to dark -haired Oria, dt^stroyer of heroes! Equal 
wej« dieir swords in battle: but fierce was the pride of 
Orla . — gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in 
the cave of Oiihona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded over the blue waves. 
Erin's sons fell beneath his might, Fingal roused his 
chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their 
hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of 
Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies ! but 
the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of 
Lochliti slept : their dreams were of blood. They lift the 
spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of 
Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by 
his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called 
his chiefs : they stood around. The king was in the midst. 
Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. 
Age withered not his powers, " Sons of Morven," said 
the hero, " to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is 
Cuthullin, the shield of Erin ? He rests in the halls of 
Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who will speed 
through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms ? 
The path is by the swords of foes ; but many are ray heroes. 
They are thuiulerbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! Who 
will arise?" 

" Son ef Trenmor ! mine be the deed," said dark> 
haired Orla, " and mine alone. W^hat is death to me ? 
I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. 
The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthul- 
lin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the 
stream of Lubar," — " And shalt thou fall alone ?" said 
fair-liaired CaljTiar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar.' 
Chief of ■ ithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I 
see thee die. and not lift the spear .' No, Orla 1 ours has 
been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; 
ours be the path of danger : ours has been the cave of 
Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of 
Lobar. " Calmnr," said the chief of Oiihona, " why 



HOURS or ID1.KNK8S. 313 

ihould thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin ? 
Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he 
will rejoice in his boy ; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads 
the feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps 
of the hunter on the heath, and Thinks it is the tread of 
Calniar. Let him not say, ' Calniar has fallen by the 
steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of 
the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of 
Mora .' Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer cf 
Calmar? Live, Calmar ! Live to raise my stone of inoss; 
live to revenge nae in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song 
of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death 
to Uria, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile 
on the notes of praise." " Orla," said the son of Mora, 
" could I raise the song of death to my friend .' Could I 
give his fame to the winds .' No, my heart would speak in 
sighs : faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! 
our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall 
be ours on high : the bards will mingle the names of Orla 
and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to 
the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twinkles 
through the night. The northern star points the path to 
Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here 
the troops are mixed : they frown in sleep ; their shields 
beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at distance in 
heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. 
All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. 
Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. 
Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his 
shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and 
glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. 
' Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oiihona.'" said 
fair haired Calmar ; " we are in the midst of foes. Is this 
a time for delay.'" "It is a time for vengeance," said 
Orla of tlie gloomy brow. " Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: 
seest thou his spear.' Its point is dim with the gore of 
my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on n)ine; but 
shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall feel 
his wound : my fame shall not soar on the blood of slum- 
ber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Conna calls; thy 
life is his; rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep; 
but did he rise alone ? No : the gathering chiefs hound on 
the plain. " Fly 1 Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. 
" Mathon is mine. I shall die in joy; but Lochlin crowns 
around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. 
Tl>€ helm of Mathon is cleft ; his shield falls from his arm : 
he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the 
blazing oak. .Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises; his 
weapon glitters on the head of Orla ; but « spear 'jierced 



3l4 HOURS OF IDLEXESS. 

his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams 
on the spear of Cahnar. As roll the waves of the Ocean 
on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of 
Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, 
proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of 
Morvei on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of 
arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield ; 
his sons throng around ; the people pour along the heath. 
Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar 
shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the 
wind. Dreadful is the clang of death ! many are the 
widows of Lochlin ! Morven prevails in its strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but 
the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze 
of ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do not awake. The 
hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? 
Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the 
dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar : he lies on the 
bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is 
the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not ; but his 
eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His 
hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, 
though low. " Rise," said the king, " rise, son of Mora: 
'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet 
bound on the hills of Morven." 

" Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven 
with Orla," said the hero. " What were the chase to me 
alone? Who should share the spoils of battle with Calmar ? 
Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy soul, Orla ! yet soft to me 
as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning : to 
me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed 
Mora ; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from 
blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my 
friend. Raise the song when I am dark!" 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. 

When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue 
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven: — the bards 
raised the song. 

" What form rises on the roar of clouds ? Whose dark 
ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests ? His voice 
rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. 
He was unmatch'd in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy 
fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar ! Lovely wast thou, 
son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. 
It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek 
around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar ! It dwells on 
the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes 
of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora 



HonRH ni* ini.KVKss. 



Spreail ihem on the arch of the rainbow; and sm 
through the tears of the storm." 



TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.84 

Nil ego contulcrira jucundo sanus amico.— Hoa> 
Dear Long, in this scquester'd scene, 

Willie all aroiiiid in slumber lie, 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Kancy's eye; 
Thus if amidst the gathering storm. 
While clouds the darkcn'd noon deform, 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial how, 
Which spreads the sign of future peace. 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 
Ah I though the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again; 
Or if, in melancholy mood, 
Some lurking envious fear intrude, 
To check my bosom's fondest thought, 

And interrupt the (;olden dream, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught. 
And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace. 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Our raptured visions, as before ; 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion. 
And .Maniiood claims his stern dominion-^ 
Age will not every hope destroy, 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring: 
But if Ins scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy l)owers. 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
And hearts with early rapture swell; 
If frowing Age, with cold control, 
Confines the current of the soul. 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye. 
Or checks tlie sympatheiic sigh. 
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 
And bills me feel for self alone ; 
Oh may my bosom never learn 

To soothe its wonteil heedless flow 
Still, still despise the censor stern. 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 



316 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, 
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild. 
And ev'n in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my soul is still the same, 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'eTi 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I'll think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past^ 

And caves their sullen roar enclose 
We heed no more the wintry blast, 

When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 

Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
But now without a theme to choose. 

The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
My youthful nymphs, alas ! are down; 

E is a wife, and C a mother^ 

And Carolina sighs alone. 

And Mary's given to another ; 
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, 

Can now no more my love recall : 
In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee ; 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays, 
His beams ahke to all displays. 
And every lady's eye's a sun. 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian don't become her, 
Whose sun displays a general summer I 
Thus faint is every former flame. 
And passion's self is now a name. 
As. when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved their light. 
And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 

Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires. 

As many a boy and girl remembers. 
While all the force of love expires, 

Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 

But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's nooiif 
And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse. 
Described in every stripling's verse ; 



HOURS OV IOLKNES8. AIJ 

For why should 1 the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before ? 
Yet ere yoa silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perforni'd her staled ronn^ 
Has thrice retraced her path of light, 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; 
And then with those our childhood knew 
We'll mingle in the festive crew ; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away 
And all the flow of souls shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower, 
Nor cease till Luna's waning born 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of monk 



TO A LADY.** 

Ob I bad my fate been join'd with thine, 
As once this pledge appeaf 'd a token, 

These follies had nut then been mine, 
for then my peace had not been broken. 

To thee these early faults I owe. 

To thee, the wise and old reproving : 

They know my sins, but do not know 

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 

For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
And all its rising fires could smother ; 

But now thy vows no more endure, 
Bestow'd by thee upon another. 

Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
And spoil the blisses that await him ; 

Yet let my rival smile in joy, 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate bim. 

Ah ! since thy angel form is gone. 
My heart no more can rest with anj { 

But what it sought in thee alone. 
Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 

Twcre vain und fruilliss to regret theet 
Nor lli)|>e, nor Memorv yield their aid, 

but i'ride may tcucli me to forget thee. 



318 



HOUKS OF IDLENESS. 



Yet all this giddy waste of years, 
This tiresome round of palling pleasures 

These varied loves, these matron's fears, 

These thoughtless strains to passion's measure 

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : — 
This cheek, now pale from early riot, 

With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; 

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys : 

To think would drive my soul to madnesfj 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Yet, ev'n in these a thouglit will steal, 
In spite of every vain endeavour, — 

And fiends might pity what I feel, — 
To know that thou art lost for ever. 



STANZAS, 



I WOULD I were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild, 

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon^'' pride 

Accords not with the freeborn soul. 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side. 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 

Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 

Take back this name of splendid sound! 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me along the rocks I love. 

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; 
I ask but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known befors. 

Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design'd for me : 

Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 
The hour when man must cease to be ? 



HOURS OP IPLKNKSS. 319 

Once I beheld a splendid dream 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Truth ! — wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this? 

I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my early friends are fledt 
How cheerless feels the heart alone 

When all its former hopes arc deadl 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile tlie sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The luart — the heart — is lonely still. 

How dull ! 10 hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or poww 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few. 

In years and feelings still the same, 
And I will fly the midnight crew, 

Where boist'rous joy is but a name. 

And woman, lovely woman ! tliou, 

ily hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall 1 
Without a sigh would 1 resign 

This busy scene of splendid woe, 
To make that calm contentment mine. 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 

Fain would I fly the haunts ( f men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind. 
My breast requires the sullen glen, 

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
Oh 1 that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to tier nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 

To flee away, and be at rest. 



SONG. 
Whkn I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, 

And clirab'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow!* 
To gaze on the torrent that thuiider'd beneath. 

Or the mist of the tempest tliai gatber'd bclow,89 
Untuior'd by science, a stranger tn fear, 

And rude as the tocks where my infancy grew, 
No feeling, save one, to my bosr)tn was di-ar; 

Need 1 say, my sweet Alary, 'twas centicd in you?* 



S20 HOURS or IDLENESS. 

Yet it could not be love, for T knew not the name,— 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
One image alone in my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd; 

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. 

I rose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, 

From mountain to mountain 1 bounded along ; 
I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, 

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song : 
At eve, on my heath -cover'd couch of repose. 

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view ; 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more; 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone. 

And delight but in days [ have witness'd before: 
Ah ! splendour has raised, but embittei'd, my lot ; 

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew: 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot; 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 

When 1 see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbieen f 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene; 
When, haply, some light. waving locks I behold. 

That faintly resembled my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold. 

The locks that were sacred to beanty, and you. 

Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more 

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow . 
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, 

Will Mary be there to receive me ? — ah no ! 
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bredl 

Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, — 

Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with joa? 



TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. 

Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 

The friendships of childhood, thoi.gh fleeting, are true; 
The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 

Nor less the aft'ection I cherish'd for you. 



J 



HOURS OF IDLKNESS. 32l 

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion ; 

The attachment of years in a moment exjiires : 
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, 

But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 

Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow: 

In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather I 
Out winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 

No more with affection shall memory blending. 
The wonted delight of our childhood retrace: 

When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, 
And w hat would be justice appears a disgrace. 

However, dear George, for I still must esteem you— 
The few whom 1 love I can never upbraid — 

The chance which has lost may in future redeem you, 
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 

1 will not complain, and though cliill'd is affection, 
\Mih me no corroding resentment shall live: 

My bobom is calm'd by the simple reflection. 
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive 

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, 
If danger demanded, were wholly your own 1 

You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, 
Devotea lo love and to friendship alone. 

You knew, — but away with the vain retrospection I 
The bond of affection no longer endures ; 

Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection. 
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 

For the jjresent we part, — I will hope not for ever; 

For time and regret will restore you at last ; 
To forget our disseution we both should endeavonr 

I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 



TO THE EARL OF CLARB. 

" Tu semper aniori» 
HU memor, ct cari coiniiU "e abscedat imago." VaLi FlAO» 

Friend of my youth ! when young we roved, 
Like striplings, niutually beloved, 

With frifnd5.liip'x purest glow, 
ibe hlifs which wing'd those rosy boon 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here hrloti. 



tS8 HOURS UF IDLENBSH. 

The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I've known* 

When distant far from ybu : 
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again, adieu 1 

Mj' pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be ehjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever 
The measure of our youth is full, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet — ah ! never I 

As when one parent spring supplies 
Two streams from which one fountain riM 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How soon, diverging from their source, 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course. 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or woe. 
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or dear, 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, 

And both shall quit tlie shore. 

Our souls, my friend ! which once supplia#. 
One wish, nor breathed a thought besid«^ 

Now flow in diff'erent channels : 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
*Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts. 

And shine in fashion's annals; 

'Tis mine to waste on love my time. 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme. 

Without the aid of reason ; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet. 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 

Poor Little 1 sweet, roelodius bardi 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 

That he, who sang before all, — 
He who the lore of love exparided,— 
By dire reviewers should be branded, 

As void of wit and moral.""- 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thiM, 
Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! 
Repine tiot at thy lot ; ' 



HOUKS OP IDLENESS. 8t5 

Thy soothing lays may still be read 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 
And critics are forgot. 

Still I must yield those worthies merit, 
Who chasten, witli unsparing spirit, 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them 
And though niyself may be the next, 
By critic sarcasm to l)e vext, 

I really will not fight them.^' 

Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner. 
He who ofTends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

Now, Clare, I must return to you; 
And, sure, apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight 
I soar along from left to right ! 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 'twould be your fate 
To add one star to royal state; — 

May regal smiles attend you! 
And should a noble monarch reign, 
You will nut seek iiis smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 

Yet since in danger courts abound. 
Where siipcioiis rivals glitter round. 

From snares may saints |ireserve you 
And grant your iuve or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care. 

But tiiosc who l^est deserve you! 

Not for a moment may you stray 

From truth's secure, unerring wayiv, ' 

May no delights decoy ! 
O'er roses may ymr footsteps move, 
Yonr snides be ever smiles of love, 

Your tears l)e tears of joy 1 

Oh 1 if you wish that ha|>|iiness 

Your coming days and years may blest, 

And virtues crown your brow { 
Be still as you were wont to be 
Spotless n^ you've been known to me,— 

Be still as you arc now. 



324 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

And though some trifling share of praise^ 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear ; 
Whilst blessing your beloved name. 
I'd waive at once a poet's fame, 

To prove a prophet here. 



IJNES WRITTEN BENEA.TH AN ELM IN THE 
CHURCHYARD OF HARROW ON THE HILL.9* 

Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh, 

Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; 

Where, now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 

With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 

With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, 

Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: 

Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill. 

Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 

Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay. 

And frequent mused the twilight hotirs away; 

Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 

But, ah ! without the thoughts which then were minfi 

How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 

Invite the bosom to recall the past. 

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 

" Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!" 

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, 
And calm its cares and passions into rest, 
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,— 
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, — 
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell. 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell : 
With this fond dream, raethinks, 'twere sweet to die — 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; 
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose. 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose; 
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd ; 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved t 
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; 
Deplored by those in early days allied, 
And unremember'd by the world beside. 



l^rr^rtr 



ENGLISH BARDS 

AND 

SCOTCH REVIEWERS: 

A SATIRE. 



" I had rather he a kitten, and cry mew ! 
Than one of tbcae same metre ballad-mongers." 

SUAKSPEABB. 

" Such siiamcless bards we have ; and i$t 'tis true, 
There are as mad, abandoned critics too." 

Pora. 



PREFACE. 
Ai.L my friends, learned and unlearned, bare urged me not to 
publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be " turned from 
the career ol' my humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of 
the brain," I should have complied with their counsel. But I 
am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or 
wiihoul arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none per 
soiially who did not commence on the offensive. An author's 
works are public property : he who purchases may judge, and 
publish his opinion if he pleases ; and the authors I have ende.> 
Toured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. 
I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, 
than ill mending their own. But my object is not to prove 
that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write 
beilcr. 

.\s the ]>oem has met with far more success than I expected, I 
have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and 
alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusaL 

In the first edition of this satire, published anonymously, four 
tr.cii lines on the subject of Bitwles's Pope were written by, and 
in^erted at the request of, an ingeni'Mis friend of mine,' who has 
now 10 the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition, 
tliry are erased, and some ot' my own substituted in their stead ; 
niy only reason for this being that which I conceive would ope- 
rile wi;h Jiny other person in the same manner, — a determination 
no; t'> piilili%h with my name any production, which was not en- 
iir. ly and excliHivcly my own coiiifxisiiion. 

W'tli rc;;anl to the real talents ul' many of the poetical persons 
«h'>^c perfonnanco are moiitioneii or alluded to in the tollowiiig 
p.i.;.s. it is presumed by the author that there can be lillie 
■ lilf ranee cl° opinion in t[i<: ].ul>lic ul lan;e ; though, like other 
»eri k K-s, each h.is lis separate labcriiacle of proselytes, by whoiu 
hl^ aliilitie^ are ovcr-raleil, his laulls overlooked, and his nietn- 
fiti ckiions received without scruple and without eonsidcraiion. 



326 ENGLISH BARDS 

But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by iie< 
veral of the writers here cen'sured renders their mental prostitu- 
tion more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, 
laughed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand the most 
decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the author 
that &ome known and able writer had undertaken their exposure ; 
but Mr. Gifford has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the 
absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in 
cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum 
to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided 
there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic 
is here offered ; as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cau- 
tery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present 
prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. — As to the £din- 
burgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a Hercules to crush the 
Hydra ; but if the author succeeds in merely " bruising one of 
the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in 
the encounter, he will be amply satisfied. 

Still must I hear ?^ — shall hoarse Fitzgeralds bawl, 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,* 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse? 
Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or wrong: 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 

Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ; 
The pen 1 foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride. 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride: 
What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
Uut thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
Our task complete, like Hamet's^ shall be free ; 
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me : 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
No Eastern vision, no distemper'd dream 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
.'\nd men, through life her willing slaves, obey; 
When fully, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Unfolds Iter motley store to suit the time; 



AND SCOTCH RBVIEWKRS. S27 

When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
When Justice halts and right begins to fail; 
li'eii then the boldest start from public sneers, 
4 fraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
Mure darkly sin, by eAtirc kept in awe 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 

To me the arrows of satiric song; 

The royal vices of our age demand 

A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 

Still there are follies, e'en lor me to chase. 

And yield at least amusement in the race: 

Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame; 

The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 

Speed, Pegasus I — ye strains of great and small, 

Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all I 

1 too can scrawl, and once upon a time 

I pour'd along tht. town a flood of rhyme, 

A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame ) 

1 printed — older children do the same. 

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
A books a book, althougli there's nothing in't. 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician name 
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 
No matter, George continues still to write, 
Thougli now the name is veil'd from public sight. 
Moved by the great example, 1 pursue 
Tiie self-same road, but make my own review: 
Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to every trade 

Save CL-nsure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney 'd jokes from Miller, got by rote. 
With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
A mind well skiU'd to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discrtet. 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheets 
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for witj 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment ? no— as sooa 
Seek roses in December — ice in June; 



328 ENGLISH BAUDS 

Hope constancy in wind, or com in chaff; 

Believe a woman or an epitaph, 

Or any other thing that's false, before 

You trust in critics, who themselves are sore; 

Or J ield one single thought to be misled 

By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head. 

To these young tyrants,6 by themselves misplacedi 

Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 

To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 

And hail their voice as truth, their word as law-— 

While these are censors 'twould be sin to spare ; 

While such are critics, why should 1 forbear? 

But yet so near all modern worthies run 

'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 

Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 

Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

Then should you ask me,? why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Giiford trod before ; 
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, 
When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
No fabled graces, flourish'd side by side ; 
From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
And, rear'd by taste, bloom'd faiier as they grewt 
Then in this happy isle, a Pope's* pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim. 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song. 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's meli>— 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or great still, retrace, 
When all to feeble bards resign their place ? 
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
This truth at least let satire's self allow. 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now. 
The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
Anil printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
While SoutRey's epics cram the creaking shelves, 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
Thus saith the preacher, " Nought beneath the sun 
[s new ;" yet still from change to change we run : 



AND SCOTCH REVIEWXRfl. 329 

What varied wonders tempt us as they past 1 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stafe, 
Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air I 
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise. 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: 
O'er taste awhile these pscudo-bards prevail; 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own : 
Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not. 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott.* 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew* 
For notice eager, pass in long review : 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; 
And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
Immeasurable measures move along ; 
For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the last I— 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blafL 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood. 
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
And skip at every step. Lord knows high, 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell. 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight. 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace; 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And think'st thou, Scott !'" by vain conceit percbanoi^ 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance. 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
To yield thy muse just half a-crown per linel 
No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fad^ 
Li't snch forego the poet's sacred name, 
Who rack their brains for lucre," not for fames 



S30 ENGLISH BAUDS 

Low may they sink to merited contempt, 
And scorn remunerate the mean attempt ! 
Such be^their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
And bid a long " good night to Marmion." 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was young, 
When Hoiaer swept the lyre, and Marc sung. 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name ! 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years. 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birtb^ 
Without the glory such a strain can give. 
As ev'n in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
On one great work a life of labour spent : 
With e^le pinion soaring to the skies, 
Behola the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
To him him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
The scourge of England and the boast of France 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford, for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, 12 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son ; 
Domnaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome. 
For ever reign the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face. 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence. 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales : 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do. 
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 
01>, Southey! Southey !i3 cease thy varied song I 
A bard may chant too often and too long: 



ANB BCOTCIi REVIKWKU8. 33J 

As tlioii art strong in verse, in mercy, spare I 

A fuurili, alas ! wore more llmii we could bear. 

But if, in spite of all the world can say, 

'I'luiii still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; 

If siill ill IJi-rkley hallads most uncivil, 

T1m)u wilt devote old women to the devil,'* • 

The hal)c unborn thy dread intent may rue: 

" Cod help thee," Southey,'^ and thy readers too. 

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule. 
The simple Wordsworth, framcr of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favourite May; 
Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and troubli^ 
And quit his books, for fear of growmg double ;" 
Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane; 
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true subbme. 
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of " an idiot boy;" 
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, 
And, like his bard, confounded night with day:'* 
So close on each ]>athetic part he dwells, 
And each adventure so sublimely tells. 
That all who view the " idiot in his glory," 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? 
Though themes of innocence arnuse him best, 
Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a pixy for a muse," 
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
How well the subject suits his noble mind 
He brays'8 the laureat of the long-ear'd kind. 

Oh I wonder-working Lewis !'' monk, or bard. 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard I 
Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou taks't thy stand. 
By gihb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band ; 
Orlracest chaste descriptions on thy page. 
To please the females of our modest age ; 
All hail, M.P.2" from whose infernal brain 
Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 



lU 



332 ENGLISH BARDS 

At whose command " grim women" throng in crowds, 

And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 

With " small grey men," " wild yagers," and what not, 

To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott ; 

Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 

St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease : 

Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, 

And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

Who, in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed, 
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hush'd? 
Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay! 
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns: 
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, 
She bids thee " mend thy line, and sin no more," 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of blue,^! , 

And boasted locks of red or auburn hue. 
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires, 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires. 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 
By dressing Camoens-- in a suit of lace ? 
Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste ; 
Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : 
Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 

In many marble-cover'd volumes view 
Hayley, in vain attempting something new ; 
Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme, 
Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst time, 
His style in youth or age is still the same, 
For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" shine! 
At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine. 
Of " Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear, 
That luckless music never triumph'd there.23 

Moravians rise ! bestow some sweet reward 
On dull devotion — Lo J the Sabbath bard, 



AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. S3S 

Sepulchral Grahame,** pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rliyuie; 
Breaks into i)lank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
And huld'y pdfers from the Pentateucli ; 
And, uiidisturh'd by conscientious qualms. 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 

H.til, Sympathy! tliy soft idea brings 
A thousand visions of a thousand things, 
And shows, dissolved in thine own melting tears, 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
And a'-it thou not their prince, harmonious Bowleal 
Thou first, grent oracle of tender souls ? 
Whether in sighing winds thou seek'st relief, 
Or consolatio'i in a yellow leaf; 
Whether thy muse most larur-ntably (ells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford hells,** 
Or, still in bells ilelighting, finds a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend; 
Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap. 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
Delighif-.il Bowles! still blessing: and still blest, 
All love thy strain, hut children like it best. 
'Tis thine, with gen'le Little's moral song. 
To sooilie the mania of the amorous throng! 
With thee our nursery damsels ^;l^ed their tears, 
Ere miss as yet completes her infant years: 
But in her tei-ns ihy whining powers are vain; 
She quits poor Bowles fiir Little's purer strain. 
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confiue 
The lofty liumhers of a harp like thine-, 
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 
Suirh as none heanl before, nr^ill again ! 
Wh>'re all (lisii^'Veries jumliled from the flood, 
S'lice first the leaky ark re))osed in mud. 
By tr.ore or less, are su'ig in every hook. 
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone; hut, pausing on the road. 
The hard sighs forth a gentle episode ;'» 
And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss I— 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Jiowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell, 
Stick to thy sonnets, man ! — at least they sell." 
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe. 
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe} 
If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd, 
Now, prone in dust, can only he revered; 
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, 
Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 
Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scaa; 
The first of poets was, alas I but man. 



334 ENGLISH BARDS 

Rake from each ancient dunghill every pearl, 
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curl ;28 
Let all the scandals of a former age 
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 
Afiect a candour which thou canst not feel, 
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
AVrite, as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 
And do for hate what Mallet^^ did for hire. 
Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, 
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme ;* 
Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead; 
A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains. 
And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. 

Another epic 1 Who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast. 
And sends his goods to market — all alive! 
Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 
Fresh fish from Helicon P' who'll buy ! who'll buy? , 
The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 
Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, 
Too much o'er bowls of rack prolong the night ; 
If commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold. 
Oh, Amos Cottle 1 — Phoebus ! what a name. 
To fill the speaking trump of future fame ! — 
Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink 1 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
Oh pen perverted I paper misapplied 
Had Cottle32 still adorn'd the counter's side, 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, 
Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limbs, 
He had not sung of Wales, nor I ot him. 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep. 
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond 1 -heaves 
Dull Maurice^' all bis granite weight of leaves : 
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 
That ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again. 



AMD SCOTCH RKVIBWBBS. ASd 

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 
Lo 1 sail Alcacus wanders down the vale; 
Though lair tiiey rose, and might have hlooni'd atlait, 
His hopes have perisli'd by the northern blast: 
Nipp'd Ml the bud by Caleduniun gales, 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails I 
O'er his lost works let classic ShctKeld weep; 
May no rude hand disturb iliuir early sleep !■•* 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 
His cluini to favour from the sacred Nine ? 
For ever startled by the mingled howl 
Of nonhern wolves, that still the darkness prowl; 
A coward brood, v>bich mangle as they prey, 
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
Aged or young, tlie living or the dead, 
No mercy find — these harpies-*^ must be fed. >- 

Why do the injured unresisting yield 
The jaliii possession of their native field? 
Why tamely thus liefore their I'angs retreat. 
Nor hunt tlie bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat fM 

Health to immortal .leffrey !'" once, in name, 
i'Jngluiid could boast a judge alnio&t ilie same; 
in soul so like, so merciful, yet jusi. 
Some think that >atan has rcsign'd his trust, 
Anil given the spirit to tlie world agu;ii. 
To sentence letters, as he sentenced ii,rii. 
With hand less mighty, but vsith bean as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
lircd in the courts heiimes. though ail that law 
As yet hath taught him is to hiid a flaw ; 
Since well instructed in the jiatnoi school 
To rail at party, though a party tool. 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Back to the sway they torfeiieii betore. 
Mis scriblding toils some recuinpence may meet, 
Ann raise this Duniel lo the judgment-seat ? 
Let Jetfries' shade indulge the pious hope, 
And gieeting thus, present him \Mtli a rope: 
" Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind ! 
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind. 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care. 
To wield in juiignient, and at length to wear.'' 

Health to great Jeilrcy I Heaven preserve his Ufa 
To flourish on the fertile shoreti of File, 
And guard it sacred in its future wars. 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Man I 
Can none remember that rTentful day, 
That ever glorious, almost fatal frav, ^ 



S36 ENGLISH BARDt 

When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 

And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by i^ 

Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock, 

Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 

Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 

Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north;* 

Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear, 

The otiier half pursued its calm career ;39 

Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, 

Tlie surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 

Tlie lolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 

Un such occasions, feel as much as man — 

The Tolbooth felt defrauded of her charms, 

It Jelfrey died, except within her arms : 

Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, 

The sixteenth story, where himself was born, 

His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 

And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : 

IStrcw'd were the streets around with milk-white reuus^ 

Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 

This of his candour seem'd the sable dew. 

That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue; 

And all with justice deem'd the two combined 

The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 

But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er- 

The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore; 

From either pistol snatch'd ihe vengeful lead. 

And straight restored it to her favourite's head; 

That head, with greater tiiau magnetic power, 

Caught it, as L)anae caught the golden shower. 

And, though the thickening dioss will scarce refine, 

Augments its ore, and is itseli a mine. 

" My son," she cried, *• ne'er thirst for gore again, 

Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 

O'er politics and poesy pieside, 

Bo<'si ot tliy country, and IJriiannJa's guide! 

I'or long as Albion's heedless sons subuiit, 

Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 

So long shall last thine uu molested reign, 

Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 

Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, 

And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 

First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen 

The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.'"' 

Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer,*' and sometimedy 

In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes, 

Smug Sydney"* too thy bitter page shall seek, 

And classic Hallam,*^ much renown'd for Greek; 

Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 

And paltry I'iilanii'i* shall traduce his friend i 



AND SCOTCH KKVIE.WERS. 3^7 

While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe,** 
Damii'd like the devil, devil-like will damn. 
Known he thy name, uiihouiided be thy sway! 
Thv Holland's banquets shall each toil repay; 
Wnile grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 
To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Keview 
Spreail its light wings of saffron and of blue, 
Beware lest blundering Brougham destroy the sale,* 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist. 

Then prosper JeftVey ! pertest of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery graia 
Whatever blessings waits a genuine Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot; 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets. 
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets. 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear.^' 
Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamour'd grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone: 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men. 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen! 
Illustrious Holland! hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot! ' 
Holland, with Henry Hetty'8 at his back, 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse 1 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallarn lay aside his fork. 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 
And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, 
Declare his landlord can at least translate l^^ 
Dunedin ! view thy children with delight. 
They write for food — and feed because they write : 
And least, when healed with the unusual grape, 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
Reforms earh error, and refines the whole.^ 

Now to the Drama turn — Oh! motley sight \ 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,** 
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content 



=r-j/ 



S38 ENGLISH BARDS 

Though now, thank Heaven ! the Rosciomania's o'er, 

And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 

Yet what avail iheir vain attempts to please, 

While British critics suffer scenes like these ? 

While Reynolds vents his "dammes!" "poohsl" and 

"zounds !"^2 
And confnion-place and common sense confounds? 
M^hile Kenny's*'' " World," just suffered to proceed, 
Proclaims the audience very kind indeed ; 
And Beaumont's pilfer' d Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words ?^* 
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone ! 
Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ? 
Awake, George Colman !** Cumberland,*^ awakeJ 
Ring the alarum bell ! let folly quake. 
Oh, Sheridan 1 if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy resume her throne again ; 
Abjure the mummery of German schools; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age. 
One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head. 
Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread. 
On those shall Farce display Buffoon'iy's mask 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask } 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose ? 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot/ 
Lo 1 with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
Still SkeflSngton and Goose divide the prize.^ 
And sure great SkeflSngton must claim our praises, 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renown'd ahke; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs ;58 
Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on,*^ 
While poor John Bull, bewilder 'd with the scene. 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean ; 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few 1 
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now. Ah ! wherefore should we tarn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn? 
Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame. 
Or, kind to du'.iiess, do you fear to iilame? 



AND SCOTCH RKVIKWERS. 339 

"A'lll may the nobles of our present race 
Uaicli cacli distortion of a iNuldi's face ; 
U ell may they smile on Italy's butfoons, 
And worship Catalatii's pantaloons,*^ 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
To soften manners, but corrui)t. the heart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er ihe town, 
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down: 
Let NNedded strumpets languish u'er Ueshayes, 
And bless the promise which his form displays; 
While Ga)toii bounds before tlie enraptured looks 
Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes: 
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the neeillcss veil; 
Let Angioluii bare her breast of snow, 
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe; 
CoUiui thrill her love-inspiring song. 
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng ; 
Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 
Keformiiig saints ! too delicately nice ; 
l5y whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
And beer undrawn, and beards uumown, display 
Your holy reverence for the Sabbatli-day. 

Or, bail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle I"^ 
Where yon proud palace. Fashion's hailow'd fane, 
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
Behold the new Petronius"^ ot the day, 
'1 he arbiter of pleasure and of play I 
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre. 
The song frum Italy, the step from Prance, 
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 
riie smile of beauty, and the llusli of Mine, 
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves and lords combine* 
liacii to his humour — Comus all allows ; 
Champaign, dice, music, or \ our neighbour's spouM. 
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade 
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made ; 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," 
When for the inghl some lately tiited ass 
Appears the beggar which Ins grundsirc was. 
The curtain diopp'd, the gay burietia o'er. 
The audience lake their turn upon the floor j 



340 ENGLIStt BARD3 

Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap; 
The first in lengthen'd line n:>ajestic swim, 
The last display the free unfetter'd limb 1 
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 
With art the charms which nature could not spare; 
These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
Not leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease, 
Where all forgotten but the power to please. 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought. 
Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught : 
There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain, 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
The jovial caster's set, and seven's the nick, 
Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
And all your hope or wish is to expire. 
Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 
And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife, 
Fit consummation of an earthly race, 
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 
While none but menials o'er the bed of death, 
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath ; 
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all. 
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl. 
To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall. 

Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand. 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng. 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost. 
To fight my course through passion's countless host, — 
Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal ; 
Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
" What art thou better, meddling fool, than they ?" 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist in me. 
No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
Gilford perchance, shall raise the chastening song. 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry . who swarm in shoals 
Prone silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles, 



AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 34 

Why should we call them from their dark abode, 
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road? 
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square? 
If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 
What harm ? In spite of every critic elf. 
Sit T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Mues Andrews*^ still his strength in couplets try, 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
Lords too are bards, such things at times befall, 
And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times. 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes ? 
Roscommon! Sheffield! with your spirits fled, 
No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle. 
The puny schoolboy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away: 
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worte ? 
What heterogeneous honours deck the peer! 
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer!" 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage ; 
But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough !" 
Nor drngg'd their audience with the tragic stufl> 
Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, 
And case b.is volumes in congenial calf : 
Yes! doff that covering, where morocco shines. 
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines. 
With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead. 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread; 
With you I war not : Gifford's heavy hand 
lias crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen; 
Want your defence, let pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew. 
And Melville's Mantle" prove a blanket too! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, 
And, peace be with you ! 'tis your best reward. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; 
Hut now at once your fleeting labours close, 
Witii names of greater note in l)lest repose. 
I'ar be't from nie unkindly to upl)raid 
The lovi;iy Uo^a's prose in inasqiK-rafle, 
Whose strains the faithful ccimcs of her mind, 
Leave wondering comprehension lai behind.*^ 



342 ENGLISH BARDS 

Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, 
Some stragglers skirmish round their columns still; 
Last of the howling host, which once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.e' 

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall,** 
Employs a pen less pointless than his awl, 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his stores of shoes, 
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the rouse, 
Heavens! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds applaud 1 
How ladies read, and literati laud 1^9 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 
'Tis sheer ill- nature — don't the world know best ? 
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme. 
And Capel Loift™ declares 'tis quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
Swains ! quit the pluugh, resign the useless spade 1 
Lo! Burns and Bloomfield,^' nay, a greater far, 
GifFord was born beneath an adverse star. 
Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over fate 
Then why no more ? if Phceb :8 smiled on you, 
Bloorafield ! why not on brother Nathan too ? 
Him too the mania, not the muse has seized ; 
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased: 
And now no boor can seek his last abode. 
No common be enclosed without an ode. 
Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 
Alike the rustic and mechanic soul! 
Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong. 
Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
So shall the fair your handywork peruse, 
Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoefc 
May Moorland weavers''- boast Pindaric skill, 
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
Neglected genius ! let me turn to you. 
Come forth, oh Campbell !'» give thy talents scope; 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
And thou, melodious Rogers ; rise at last, 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past; 
Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, 
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ; 



AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 343 

Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 

Assert thy country's honour and tliine own. 

What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 

Whore her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? 

Unless, perchance, Irora his cold bier she turns, 

To deck the turf that vsraps her minstrel. Hums! 

No! though contempt hatli mark'd the spacious brood, 

The race who rhyme from folly, or for food. 

Vet still some genuine sons 'tis Iter's to boast, 

Wlio, least att'ecting, still atfect the most: 

Keel as they write, and write but as they feel — 

Bear witness Gifford,74 Sotheby,'^ Macneil."'' 

" Why slumbers Gifford ?" once was ask'd in vain; 
Why slumbers (jittord? let us ask again. 
Are there no follies for his pen to purge ?'^ 
Ate there no fools whose backs demand the scourge? 
Are theie no sins for satire's hard to greet? 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 
Sliall peers or princes tread pollution's path, 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, 
Eternal beacons of cousummate crime ? 
Arouse thee, Giftord ! be thy promise claim'd, 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White \'^ while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing. 
The spoilers came, and all the promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. 
Oil ; what a noble heart was there undone, 
When Science' self desiroy'd her favourite son I 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit. 
She sow'd thy seeds, but death hath reap'd the fruit. 
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And lielp'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain. 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'u his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And wing'd the shaft that quvier'd in his heart: 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel. 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; 
\N hile the same plumage that had warm'd bis nest. 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days. 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; 
'I'liat sirain'd invention, ever on the wing. 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing: 
'Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who write, 
Shrink from that fatal word to i^enius — trite ; 



344 ENGLISH BARDS 

Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest ; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

And here let Shee^' and Genius find a place, 
M'hose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
W hose magic touch can bid the canvass glow, 
Or pour tlte easy rhyme's harmonious flow ; 
While honours, doubly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
Mhere dwelt the muses at their natal hour; 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar^ 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war. 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands: 
Who rends tlie veil of ages long gone by, 
And view'd their remnants with a poet's eye! 
M right?*"" 'twas thy happy lot at once to view I 
'I hose shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate bards,*' who snatch'd to light 
Those gems too long witliheld from modern sight; 
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe 
And all their renovated fragrance flung, 
To grace the beauiies of your native tongue; 
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone : 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these, or such as these, with just applause. 
Restore the muse's violated laws; 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime. 
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme, 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
In show the symple lyre could once surpais. 
But now, worn down, appear in native brass : 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in smiles and sound- 



AND SCOTCH RBVIEWBaS. 3^& 

Him let tliem shun, with him let tinsel diet 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop^ 
The nieuiiest oliject of the lowly group, 
Wiiose vtrse, of all but childish prattle void, 
Seems blesbed harmony to Lamb and Lloyd ;** 
Let them — but hold, my muse, none dare to teach 
A blraiii far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
The native genius with their feeling given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

And thou too, Scott ! resign to minstrels rude 
The wilder slogan of a border feud: 
Let others spin their meagre lines for hire ; 
Enough for genius, if itself expire ! 
Let Soutliey sing, altliough his teeming muse, 
I'rolitic eveiy si»ring, be too profuse 
Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, 
And liniilier Doleridge lull the babe at nurse; 
Let spccirc-mongeriiig Lewis aim, at most, 
•'I'o rouse tlie galkries, or to raise a ghnsi ; 
Let Muorc be lewd ; let Sirangford steal from Moon 
And swear tlial C'aniot-iis sang such notes of yore; 
Let llayicy hobble on, Montgomery rave. 
And godly Giahame chant a stupid stave; 
Lei siJiiiKteering IJowles h.s strains refine. 
And whine aiid wliinij er to the toutteenth line; 
Le ^tiitt. Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest 
Of (irub-street, and of Grosveiioi -place the best, 
Scrawl on, till death releasi us from the strain, 
Ur Coijiii.oii Slen&e assert her rights agaiu. 
iiut thou, Willi powers that mock the aid of praise, 
bluiu.iisi leave Ut liuiiilikr bards ignoble lajs : 
Thy L'ounirs's \uice, the voice oi all the nine, 
Oeiiiaiiii .( Iiuiiow'u harp — iliai liarji in thine. 
6u\ ! Mill hoi Caledonia's annals mcIU ^ 

The glorious record uf some nobler tield. 
Than the vile furay of a plundering plan, 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter lood 
For outlaw d Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood? 
Scoilaiiii ! still pioiidly claim thy native bard, 
And bt tliN praise Iiin hrsi, his best reward! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live, 
But (;wii the vast renown a world can give; 
Be known, percliance, when Albion is no more, 
And tell the tale of what she was before; 
I'd future iiinea her fndcd tnnir recall. 
And save her (fhiry, though Ins country falL 



346 ENGLISH BAKD8 

Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
And other victors fill the applauding skies ; 
A few brief generations fleet along, 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song: 
E'en now, what once loved minstrels scarce may clain 
The transient mention of a dubious name! 
When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blasts 
Though long tlie sound, the echo sleeps at last; 
And glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, 
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
Expert in science, more expert at puns? 
Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she flies. 
And even spurns the great Seatonian prize, 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Hoare,^' and epic blank by Iloyle:** 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. 85 
Ye ! who in Granta's honours would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

There Clarke, still striving piteously " to please," 
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
A wuuld-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
CoiKieiiiii'ii to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And fur't)ish falsehoods for a magazine, 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
Hiniself a living libel on mankind. 

Oh I dark asylum of a Vandal race !"*' 
At once the imast of learniuL, and disgrace; 
So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's**' verse 
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's** worse. 
I'.ut where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 
Tbi' partial muse delighted loves to lave; 
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove. 
To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove; 
Whcie Eichards wakes a genuine poei's fires, 
And modern Britons glory in their sires. 89 

For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to tell 
My country, what her sons should know too well, 
Zeai for her honoiu- bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her oge; 



A2«0 SCOTCH REVIKWBRS. S47 

No just applause her honour'd name shall lose. 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would tliy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name I 
What Athens was in sciencr, Rome in power, 
Wliiit Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
'Tis tliine at once, fair Albion ! to have been— 
Earth's chief ilictatrcss, ocean's lovely queen: 
luit Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's prouil piers lie sbatter'd in the main; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd, 
And llriiain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
Hut let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
With warning ever scoflTd at, till too late; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
Anil uru;e tlt.v bards to gain a name like thine. 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, 
riie senate's oracles, the peojle's jest !• 
■Still hear thy motley orators disjjense 
The flowers of rheioric, though not of sense, 
V\'lii!e Canning's colleagues bate him for his wit, 
And old damc^ Portland"" fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; 
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height. 
And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight : 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime,9> 
Where KaflF is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snowi 

sublime. 
But should 1 back return, no letter'd rage 
Shall drag my cfimmon-place hd k on the stage. 
Let \aih Valeiuia rival luokle>s C-irr.'s 
And eijual liiiii whose work he sought to mar. 
I.ct Aberileen and Kigiii''-' still pursue 
The .-"bade of lame tiirnugh regions of virtu; 
Wa^tc u>rle>s ihoiisaiids on their I'hidian freaks, 
Missliapen moiiunieiiis and Hiaim'd antiques; 
And make their grand saloons a general mart 
I'or all the miitdated blocks of art. 
Of hardan tours let dilettanti fell, 
1 leave topography to ra])i(i''-< Cell ;"•'» 
.\nd, quite content, no more shall interpose 
Ti> stun the public ear — at least with prose. 

Th.is far I've held my iindisturb'd career, 
Prepared for rancour, sleel'd 'gainst selfish feir. 
This thing (tf rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown, 
My voice was heard again, though not «o loud, 
If J page, though nameless, never disavow'd | 



348 ENGLISH BARDS 

And now at once I tear the veil away : 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscar'd by all the din of Melbourne house, 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too are " penetrable stuff." 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubljoin foe. 
The time hath been when no harsh sound would fall 
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall ; 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneatti my eyes ; 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
I've learn'd to thiok, and sternly speak the truth; 
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss: 
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 
1 too clan hunt a poetaster down; 
And, arm'd in ])roof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch maraiulor, and to Southern dunce. 
Thus much I've dared to do : how far my lay 
Hath wronged these righteous times let others say 
This, let the world, which knows not how to spaN^ 
Ifet rarely blames unjustly, now deciare.** 



J 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



" Pallas te hoc vulncre, Pallas 

Inunolat, et poenam scclcratu ex sanguine sumiU" 

JSneid, lib. sik 



Slo^ sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 

Along Morea's liills the setting sun ; 

Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 

But one unclouded blaze of living light ; 

O'er the husli'd ileep the yellow beam he throws. 

Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows; 

On old iiigina's rock and Hydra's isle 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 

O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 

Though there his altars are no more divine. 

Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 

Their azure arches through the long expanse, 

More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance. 

And lenderest tints, along their sun^mits driven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaveat 

Till darkly shaded from the land and deep, 

Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
When, Athens ! here tliy wisest look'd his last. 
Mow watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's- latest day I 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
Tlie precious hour of parting lingers still; 
But sad his light to agonising eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before; 
But ere he sunk below Ciihfcron's head. 
The cup of woe was quaflTd — the spirit fled; 
Tlie soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly, 
Who lived and died as none can live or die. 

But, lo! from high llymetius to the plain 
The (|ueen of night asserts her silent reign ;* 
No tiiurky vapour, herald of the storm, 
liiiied her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 



350 THE CUUSE OF MINERVA. 

With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play^ 
There the white coUimn greets her grateful ray, 
And brighi around, with quivering beams beset. 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, 
Where meek Cepliisus sheds his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,* 
A.nd sad and sombre mid the holy calm. 
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless bjr. 

Again the ^gean, heard no more afar. 
Lull's his chafed breast from elemental war; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile* 

As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore. 
Whose arts and arms but live in poet's lore ; 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease. 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 

Hours roU'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god: 
But chiefly, Pallas ! thine ; when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race. 
When, lo I a giant form before me strode. 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! 

Yes, 'twas Minerva's self ; but, ah ! how changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged 
Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand : 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow. 
Her idle aegis bore no Gorgon now; 
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shafrless e'en to mortal glance; 
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
Shrunk from her touch, ami wither'd in hr.r grasp; 



TBK CURStK OP UINERTA. Sbl 

And, ah though still the hrijj'htcst of the sky. 
Celestial tears Ijcdimni'ii her large blue eye; 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow 
Aud raouni'd bis unstress wilii a shriek of woe! 

" Mortal !" — 'twas thus she spake — " that hlush of sluuiM 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a nohle name ; 
First of the mighty, foremost of tiie free, 
Now honour'd lest by all, and leatt by me . 
Chief of iliy foes shall Pallas slill be found, 
Scek'st thou the cau^e of loathing ? — look around. 
Lr) ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
'Scaperl frcHii tiie ravage of the Turk and Goth,* 
Tliy count ry sends a spoiler worse than both. 
Survey this vacant violated fane ; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain : 
7'/iese Cecrops placed, Ihii I'ericles adorn'd,^ 
'J7iat Adrian rear'd when drooping i^cience mourn'd. 
NVliiii more I owe let gratitude attest — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer caiot, 
«The insulted wall sustains his hated name : 
Fur Elgin's fame tliu> grateful Pallas pleads, 
Celow, his name — aliove, heliold his deeds ! 
Be ever liaii'd with equal honour here 
The Gothic monarcli and the Pictish peer: 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
Bnt basely stole \\hat less barbarians won. 
So when the lion quits his fell repast. 
Next prowls the wolf, the tithy jackal last: 
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former made their own 
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the gods arc juit, and crimes are cross'd: 
See here what Klgin won, and what he lost ! 
Another name with Ais pollutes my shrine: 
Behold where Uian's beams disdain to shine ; 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 
When Venus half avenged Miner'a's shame."' 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply. 
To soothe the vengeance kindled in her eye: 
" Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 
Frown not on England ; England owns him nott 
Aibenrt, no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 
A-k'st thou the difference ? From fair Phyle's towel* 
.survey Bccotia ; — Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land^ 
llath Wisdom's goddess never held commiindi 



352 TUB CURSE OF MINERVA. 

A. barren soil, where Nature's germs qpnflned 

To stern sterility, can stint tlie mind ; 

Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 

Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth; 

Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; 

A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 

Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 

Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 

Till burst at length, each watery head o'erflows, 

Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 

Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 

Despatch her scheming children far and wide : 

Some east, some west, some every where but north. 

In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 

And thus — accursed be the day and year ; — 

She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 

Yet Caledonia claims some native worth. 

As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth ; 

So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 

Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 

Shake off the sordid dust of such a land. 

And shine like children of a happier strand ; 

As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place, 

Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 

" Mortal !" the blue-eyed maid resumed, *' once more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
Though fallen, alas 1 this vengeance yet is mine, 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest; 
Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest. 

" First on the head of him who did this deed 
My curse shall light, — on him and all his seed: 
Without one spark of intellectual fire. 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire 
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
Believe him bastard of a brighter race : 
Still with his hireling artists let him prate. 
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell. 
Whose noblest, native gusto is to sell ; 
To sell, and make — may Shame record the day!— 
The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey.** 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 
And own himself an infant of fourscore.''^ 
Be all the bruisers cuU'd from all St. Giles 
That art and nature may compare their styles i 



THK CUaSR ur MINERVA. 353 

While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
Ami marvel at his Lordship's ' stone shop '•• there. 
Uoiinil the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep, 
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep; 
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
The room with transient glance appears to skim. 
Yet marks the mighty hack and length of limb; 
Mourns oVr the dirterence of now and then ; 
Exclaims, * These Greeks indeed were proper men I' 
Draws sly coinparisons of these with those, 
And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 
U l>en shall a modern maid have swains like these! 
Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules! 
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view. 
In silent indignation mix'd with grief, 
Adnures the plunder, but abhors the thief." 
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the dust, 
N[ay hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 
Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian doBM, 
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 
"And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
In many a branding page and burning line ; 
Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed. 
Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war.i3 
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
Or break the compact which herself had made; 
Par from such councils, from the faithless field 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield : 
A fatal gift, that tum'd your friends to stone. 
And left lost Albion bated and alone. 

" Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base- 
Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head. 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood. 
And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
Your freedom rights, foiDade ye to enslave. 



(f- 



354 THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 

" Look on your Spain ! — she clasps the hand she bateSi 
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from lier gates. 
Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally. 
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 

" Look last at home — ye love not to look there; 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair : 
Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls, 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 
* Blest paper credit ;'•* who shall dare to sing ? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each Premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear ; 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas ! too late : 
Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign ' log.' 
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

" Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power ; 
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 
And pirates barter all that's left behind.'* 
No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war, 
The idle merchant on the useless quay 
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away; 
Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores: 
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom. 
And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom. 
Then in the senate of your sinking state 
Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. 
Vain is each voice where tones could once command; 
E'en factious cease to charm a factious land; 



THB CUKSK UF MINKKVA. 355 

Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 

iVnd light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 

" 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in vain; 
The Furies seize her ahdicatcd reign : 
Wide o'er the realm flicy wave their kindling brands, 
And wring her vitals wi'li their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive strugtjle still remains, 
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
The hanner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 
O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles; 
The brazen trump, tlie spirit-stirring drum, 
That bid the foe defianoe ere they come; 
Tlie hero bounding at his country's call, 
Tiie glorious death that consecrates his fall, 
Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
But know, a lesson you may yet he taught, 
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought: 
Mot in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
His day of mercy is the dny of fi^ht. 
But when the field is foni;ht, the battle won. 
Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun s 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know iiy name ; 
The slaughter'd peasant and ra\ish'd dame. 
The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untauglit to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames? 
Nay, frown not, .Vlbion! for the torch was thine 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life. 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." 



THE WALTZ: 

AN APOSTKOPHIC HYMN. 



" Quails in Eurotse ripis, aut per juga Cyntbi, 

Exercet Diana cboros." VirsiIm 

" Such on Eurotas' banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seema : and so she charms the sight, 
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads." 

Dkyobn's Virgil, 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 
Sib, 

I AM a country gentleman of a midland county. I might 
have been a parliament-man for a certain borough ; having had 
the offer of as many votes as General T. at the general election 
in 1812. But I viras all for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years 
ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of ho- 
nour. We 'lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when 
my wife and 1 were invited by the Countess of Wallzaway (a 
distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. , Think- 
ing no harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, as 
they call it, markelahle) age, and having besides a Chancery suit 
invelerately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in oui 
old chariot, — of which, by the bye, my wife grew so much 
ashamed in less than a week, that 1 was obliged to buy a second- 
hand barouche, of which I might mount the bos, Mrs. H. says, if 
I could drive, but never see the inside — that place being reserved 
for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and 
opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing (she 
was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the last 
century), I unbooled, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expect- 
ing to sec a country dance, or, at most, cotillions, reels, and all 
the old paces to the newest tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on 
arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round 
the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on 
before ; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her 
waist, turning round, and round, and round, to a d — d see-saw 
ap-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the " Black joke,'' 
only more " <tffetuo*o,"li\\ it made me quite giddy with wondering 
they were not so. By-and by they stopped a bit, and I thought 
they would sit or fall down : — but no; with Mrs. H.'s hand on 
his shoulder, " quam familiariter" (as Terence said, when I was 
at school), they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like 
'.wo cock-chafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what all 
ibis meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our 
W Ihtlmina fa name I never heard butin the Vicar of Wakefield, 
.liiiugh lur moihcr would call her after the Princess of Swappea 



THB WALTZ. 357 

bttcb„ suid, " Lord ! Mr. lloiiieiii, ciin l yuii ht-e llicy aic vullz- 
ili(; ?" ur wuil/.lli);, (1 loigm v\l.ii|j) ; m.a lutn up In; yi>l, aiiU 
Ler liiuliicl uiiU suiti.uiiu uuav uic} uelil. ulul i<JUiio-.iUuui(.'U tl 

tiil MlppCI-lllltC. N<>^^ iilUc • hliOM UllUllll», 1 IIKC 11 III uil 

iiii:{j.'<, uiid M) docs Mrs. H. (ihuiigli 1 liuve brukeu Ul\ i>1jiiis, uUU 
I'uur times ovcrlurued Mrs. iiurncui's uiaiit, ai pracli.Ning ili« 
piL-liiiiiiiary steps in u morning). Indeed, so uiueti du i liKu it, 
tiial bavui^ a turn lor rhvuie, tastily ili.^piu^cd in sunn; ulectioit 
bailuds, una songs in bimour ot all liie vieioiies (but lilt lately 1 
Luve liau little praetiee in that way;, 1 sat down, ana widi lliu aid 
ol' W'lliiaiii l-uzgerald, ICmj., and a i-!u bints iVoin Dr. Busby, 
(wbosc recuaiions 1 attend, and am luolJ.^lrou^ I'unil ul Alaster 
busby's inaiiiiei ol' dtliveiiin; bis i.iiliei s lale sul;ecs^lui ' Drury 
Lane Address' ), 1 cuui|joNed llie toliou iiig li\uiii, nberewiibal 10 
make uiy seiiliiuunls Kinnvii to ibe pubtlu ; whom, nevurlUuless, I 
heartily despise, us well as tbc critics. 

1 am, 6ir, vours, &c. &<:. 

HOli.iUE llOHNEM. 

Mdse of the many-twinkling feet ! whose charms 

Are nuvv extended up iiuiii Icgb tu arms ; 

Terjibichore ! — loo long uiisdeKin d a lUiuii — 

Kcpioacliiul term — bi.'Sl»\v'd liul to nplnaid — 

lit- ncetorili in all ihe bronze ol liii^liinesii shine, 

The least a vtstal of the virgin iNine. 

1-ar be fn.m thee and tliiiie iiie name of prude; 

Mock'd, yet triutnphanti sneer'n at, unsulidued; 

Tiiy ici;!> iniisi move lo eonqit r as llicy (ly, 

If i)Ui thy co.iis are leaMiiuiiite liij;ii ; 

Tiiy lin-HSi — II liare eiioiii^li — imjuhc.- no sliieid; 

DaiiC't loitti AI2X.V armour thou ^iiait uil.c the tieid, 

And own — niipregnable to vioul as^au.is, 

Thy not loo lawlull) hegoiten " Wuhz.' 

Ilail, niinhle iiym|ih I to whom the you!<i; hussar, 
The whisk' r'll votary of waliz aim war, 
iiis iiiijht di:votc», deipil'' of s|iur aiiu ijoots; 
A sight unmaich'd since l>rph(:us and ins tirutes : 
Hall, spini-siirnng Waltz ! — beneath whose banners 
A modern hero fought for modish manners; 
tin ..ounslow's heath to rival Wellesiey's fame, 
Cock'd — fired — and iniss'd hie miin — hut gain'd his aimt 
llail, moving Muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 
Gives a.l It Can, and hids us take the rest. 
Oh 1 for the flow of bushy, or oi I'itz, 
The laiter'b loyalty, tl"" lormer's wit*, 
To " energise me ohjjct 1 pursue," 
And give boil, f^cliat and his dance liicir due! 

Inipciial VN'altz ! imported from the Hhinc 
(Famed for the growth ol pedigrees and winej, 
Lung be thine import from ail duty free, 
And hock itself be Icn eiteero'd than thee t 



358 THE WALTZ. 

In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our celler — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims. 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh, Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below. 
Ere cursed confederation made tliee France's, 
And only left us thy d — d debts and dances ! 
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, 
We bless thee still — for George the Third is left I 
Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
To Germany, and highnesses serene, 
M ho owe us millions — don't we owe the queen ? 
To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, 
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 
Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen — and Waltz. 

But peace to her — her emperor and diet. 
Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's " fiat!" 
Back to my theme — Muse of motion ! say. 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 

Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales. 
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had maiUjf 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep ; 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, 
She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes : 
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch. 
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match ; 
And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs { 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
Like Lapland witches to insure a wind; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and to back it, 
Of Heyn^, such as should not sink the packet. 

Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freighkt^ 
pplightful Wfllti, oh tiptoe for ^ mate 



THB WALTZ. 359 

The welcome vessel reach'd the genial straad, 
.\n(i ruuiid her flock'd the daughters of the land. 
Not decent Uavid, when, before the ark, 
His grand pas-seul excited some remark; 
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought; 
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, 
Her nimble feet danced off another's head; 
Not Cleo|ialra on her galley's deck, 
Uisplay'd so much of leg, or more of neck, 
Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
ISeheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 

. To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 

Ache witii the annual tributes of a spouse; 

To you of nine years less, who only bear 

The budding sprouts of those that you shall yitix, 

Wiih added ornaments around them roU'd 

Ot native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 

To you, ye matrons, ever on tiie watch 

To mar a son's, or make a'*"Mghter's match ; 

To you, ye children of — whore chance accords — 

Always the ladies, and sometitnes their lords ; 

I'o you, ye smgle gentlemen, who seek 

Toriiieiits for life, or pleasures for a week : 

As Lovi- or Hymen your endeavours guide, 

To gain your own, or snatch another's bride; — 

To one and all the lovely stranger came. 

And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

lindearing Waltz ! to thy more melting tune 
Bow Irisli jig, and ancient ngadoon. 
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance, forego 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe 1 
Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands, 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
■Where ne'er before — but — pray •' put out the light. ' 
M( thinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
Shines much too far — or I am much too near ; 
And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this remarki 
■• My slippery steps are safest in the dark !" 
lltii here the Muse with Hue decorum halts, 
At.d lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 

0))8ervan» travellers of every time! 
Ye (piartos publi»hed upcn every clinic* 
Uh lay. shall dtdl Komaika's heavy rotind, 
r«n'l«»igo's wriggle, or Bolero's bound', 
t an : gNpt's Almas — tnntalizinK grorp— • 
Cnlnmbia's copereri fn the warlike whooo — 



360 THE WAXTZ. 

Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne ? 
Ah, no ! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 

Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, 
W'ith George the Third's — and ended long before !— 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive 1 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host : 
Fool'' Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
Ni: .'*Hcherous powder bids conjecture quake; 
No r' '^-starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache ; 
(Tra/ipferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape flBv 

Goats in their visage, women in their shape ;) ^f^^^ 

No damsel faints when rather closely press'd, 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts. 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz." 

" Seductive Waltz! — though on my native shore 
Ev'n Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore ; 
Werter — to decent vice though much luclined, 
Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael 
Would ev'n proscribe thee from a Paris bail ; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens. 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes; 
Wide and more svide thy witching circle spreads, 
An.l turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; 
With thee ev'n clumsy cirs attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practise what they can't p •Dnounce. 
■God.s! iiow the giorioub theme my strain exalts. 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of " Waltz I" 

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut; 
The court, the Regent, like herself, were new ; 
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards; 
New ornaments for black and royal guards; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
New coins (mosc new) to follow those that fled ; 
New victories — nor can we prize them less, 
Though Jenky wonders at his own success; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell ? 
New mistresses — no, old — and yet 'tis true, 
Though they (je old, the thing is soineihing new; 
Eajh new, quite new — (except soiiic ancient tricks), 
New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new stickl 
With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, 
New troopers strut, new Inrncoats blush in blue ; 



TUB WALTZ , 361 

So saith the muse : my , what say you ? 

Such was the time when Waltz, might hest maintain 
Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 
Such was tlie time, nor ever yet was such ; 
Hoops are no more, and petticoats 7iot muchf 
Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays, 
And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 
The hall hegins — the honours of the house 
First duly done hy daughter or by spouse, 
Some potentate — or royal or serene — 
With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien, 
Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 
Might once have heen mistaken for a hlush. 
From where the tjarb just leaves the bosom free. 
That spot where hearts were once supposed to bet 
Hound all the confines of the yielded waist, 
The strangest hi'.nd may wander undisplaced; 
The la<iy's in return may grasp as much 
As princely paunches offer to her touch. 
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 
One hand reposing on the royal hip; 
The other to the shoulder no less royal 
Ascending with affection truly loyal! 
Thus front to front tlie partners move or stand. 
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 
And all in turn may follow in their rank, 
The Earl of — Asterisk— and Lady — Blank ; 
Sir — Such-a-one — with those of fashion's host, 
For whose blest surnames- -vide " Morning Post" 
(Or if for that impartial print too late, 
Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date)-^ 
Thus all and each, in movement swift and slow, 
The genial contact gently undergo; 
Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 
If " nothing follows all this palming work ?" 
True, honest Mirza; — you may trust my rhyme- 
Something does follow at a fitter time ; 
The breast thus publicly resign'd to man, 
In private may resist him if it can. 

O ye who loved our gran<lmothers of yore, 
Fitrpatrick, Sheridan, and many niore ! 
And thou, my Prince! whose sovereign taste and will 
It is to love the lovely beldames stili! 
Thou ghost of Qneensbury ! whose judging sprite 
Satan may spare to pee)) a single night, 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodcns struck so l>right a stroke as this? 
To teach the young ideas h-»w to rise, 
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes; 



362 THE WALTZ. 

Rush to the heart, and h'ghten through the frame» 
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame : 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
fVho, tempted thus, can answer for the rest? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be, or ought ; 
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap. 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap? 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied. 
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form, 
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign. 
To piess the hand so press'd by none but thine ; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret ; 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint ; 
If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; 
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go. 
The little left behind it to bestow. 

Voluptuous Waltz I and dare I thus blaspheme! 
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
Terpsichore, forgive ! — at every ball 
My wife now waltzes — and my daughters shall f 
My son — (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 
These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 
Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
Will wear as green a bough for him as me)— 
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amend^ 
Grandsons for me — in beirs to all his frientb. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



" Expenac Annibalcm : — quot libras in duce summo 
Inrcnies 7" Juvemal, ia*. x. 

" The Emperor Ncpos was acknoulcdged by the Senate, by th« 
ItalianM, iuid by the proviiiciaU of Gaul j his moral virtues, and mili- 
tary taients, were loudly celebrated ; and those who derived any pri- 
vate benctit from his (government, announced in prophetic strains tiu 
resCoratioa of public felicity. 



By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in c 

Tery ambi|;uous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till .** 

Gibbon's, Decline and Fall, vol. yi. p. aaO> 



'Tis done — but yesterday a King 1 
And arin'd with Kings to strive — 

And now thou ait a nameless thing: 
So abject — yet alive I 

Is this the man of thousand thrones. 

Who strew'd our earth with hostile boneB^ 
And can he thus survive } 

Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 

Nor man nor fiend listh fallen so far. 

lU-mlnded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bow'd so low the knee.' 
By gazing on thyself grown blind. 

Thou taughl'bt the rest to see. 
M'ith might unciuebtion'd, — jiower to save^ 
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 

To those that worshipp'd thee; 
Nor till thy fail could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness ! 

Thanks for that lesson — it will teacb 

To after-warriors more, 
Than high I'hilo^oI)hy can preach, 

And vainly prciich'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again. 

That led them to aj'ore 
Those I'airod things of sabre sway 
With fronis of brass, and feet of daj 



364 ODE TO NAPOI.KON BUONAPARTK. 

The triumph, and the vanity, 
The rapture of the strife^ — 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quell'd — Dark Spirit ! what must be 
The madness of thy memory I 

The Desolator desolate ! 

The Victor overthrown 
The Arbiter of others' fate 

A Suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope, 
That with such change can calmly cope 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave— 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave I 

He who of old woula rend the oak, 
Dream'd not of the rebound ; 

Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke'^ 
Alone — bow look'd he round ? 

Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 

An equal deed hast done at length, 
And darker fate hast found : 

He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 

But thou must eat thy heart away! 

The Roman,' when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 

• Threw down the dagger — dared depart,. 

In savage grandeur, home — 

He dared depart in utter scorn 

Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self>upheld abandon'^ power. 

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 

Had lost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries away, 

An empire for a cell ; 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds. 

His dotage trifled well : 
Yet better had he neither known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne 



ODB TO NAPOLEON BDONAPAKTS. t65 

Dot thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To which thy weakness clung : 
All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the lieart 

To see thine own unstrung; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean; 

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him^ 

Who thus can hoard his own I 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembli'ig lira^ 

And thank'd him for a throne ! 
Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear, 
When thus their mightiest foes their feat 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrai)t leave be.hwA 
A brighter name to lure mankind.' 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no moii;^ 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar heigbtt 
To set in such a starless night ? 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero diut 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, Mortality! are just 

To all that pass away ; 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate. 

To dazzle and dismay : 
Nor deem'd Contempt could tltus make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower. 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour? 

Still clings she to thy side? 
. Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, lon;^ despair. 

Thou throneltss llomicide .' 
If still blie loves tine, lii);ird that gem 
'Tis worih tliy vaiiisli'u diadem 1* 



S66 ODE TO NA.PULEON BUONAPAKn* 

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea j 
That element may meet thy smile- 
It ne'er was ruled by thee 1 
Or trace with thine all idle hand. 
In loitering mood upon the sand. 

That Earth is now as free! 
That Corinth's pedagogue^ hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 

Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage 

What thoughts will there be thine» 
While brooding in thy prison'd rage? 
But one — " The world was mine l" 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is witii thy sceptre gt>lie, 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forta — 
So long obey'd — so little worth 1 

Or. like the thief of fire from heaven,' 

Wilt thou withstand the shock? 
And share with him, the unforgiven. 

His vulture aud his rock 
Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst. 
And that last act, though not thy worsi 

The very Fiend's arch mock ;* 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died? 



HEBREW MELODIES.! 



The subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend, tha 
Hoc. Douglas Kinnaird, for a Selection of Hebrew Melodies,! and 
hnvc bern put Jshed, with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and 
Mr. .Nathan. fantutry, 18l«. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.' 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace, 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart wliosc love is innocent! 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT. 

TiiK harp the monarch minstrel swept, 
The King of men, tlic loved of Heaven, 

Which music liallow'd while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven I 

It ^-oftcn'd men of iron mould, 

1 1 gavo the III virtues not their own ; 

Nu cur so rlull. no soul so cold, 

Tliat felt not, fired not to the tone. 

Till David's lyre grew mightier than hit tbroM 



i68 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode 1 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love, 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above, 

la dreams thftt day's broad light can not nmam. 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears; 
If there the cherish 'd heart "be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome tliose untrodden spheres I 

How sweet this very hour to t?ip ', 
To soar from earth, aud find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

It must be so : 'tis not for self 

That we so tremble on the br'rk ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh I in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
With them the immortal waters '^••ink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs i 



THE WILD GAZELLK. 

Tbe wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound, 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground : 
Its airy step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport hj i 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 
Hath Judah witness'd there } 

And o'er her scenes of lost deligaic 
Inhabitants more fair. 

The cedars wave on Lebanon, 

But Judah's statelier maids are gone ■ 



HEBREW MELODIES. S69 

More blest each palm that shades those plaint 

Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In soliiarj grace: 
It cannot quit its place of biith, 
It will nut live in other earth. 

But we must wander witheringlf, 

In other lands to die ; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie ; 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 

Oh ! weep for those that weps by Babel's stream, 
Whose shiines are desol.ite, whose land a dream; 
Weep lor tilt; liarp of Ju(iah's hrokeii shell; 
Mourn — where tlieir God hath dwelt the Godless dwelll 

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet? 
And Jiidah's melody once more rejoice 
The luarts that leai)'d before its heavenly voice? 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast. 
How shall we flee away and be at rest 1 
The wild dove liaih her nest, the fox his cave, 
Miinkiiid their country — Israel hut the grave 



ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray. 

On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 

Thn Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's sieep — 

Yet there — ev'n there — oh God ! thy thunders sleept 

There — where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone i 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone I 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire: 
Thyself — none hving see and not expire! 

Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear; 
Sweep from bis shiver'd hand the opfiressor's spevi 
How !i>ng liv t\ rants shall thy land lie trod ! 
l.'ow long ihy temple worshiplcss, oh Oodl 



370 HEBREW MELODIES 

JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 

Since our Country, our God — Oh, my sirel 
Demand that thy Daughter expire; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow- 
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now I 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behokl me no more: 
If the hand that 1 love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow I 

And of this, oh, my father! be sure — 

That the blood of thy child is as pure 

As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 

And the last thought that soothes me below. 

Though the virgins of Salem lament. 
Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my father and country are free ! 

When this blood of thy giving hath f^ush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovcst is Lush'd, 
Let my memory still he thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as 1 died.! 



OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. 

Oh 1 snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head. 

And feed deep i bought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'dthee dead 

Away 1 we know that tears are vain, 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress: 

Will this unteach us to complain .' 
Or make one mourner weep the less.' 

And thou — who tell'st roe to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



BCBRXW MELODIB8. 371 

MY SOUL IS DARK. 

Mr Mul is dark — Oli ! quickly string 

The harp I yet can i)rook to hear; 
And let thy gentle tinkers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hoj)e he dear, 

That sound shall charm it forth again: 
If in these eyes there lark a tear, 

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my braia 

Rut bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy note- of joy be first: 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
For it hath been by sorrow nursed. 

And ached in sleepless silence long; 
And now 'tis doomed to know the worat, 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 

I SAW thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue; 
And then methouglu it did appear 

A violet dropping dew : 
I saw thee smile — the sappliire's blaza 

Beside thee ceased to shine : 
It couM not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 
Which scarce the shade of coming er* 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mina 

Their own pure joy impart; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begnai 
Thy country's strains record 

The triumphs of her chosen Son, 
The slaughters of his sword ! 

The deeds he did, the fields he WOB, 
The freedom he restored I 



372 HEBREW MEL0DIK3. 

Though thou art fall'n. while we are fret 
Thou shall not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that flow'd from that 
Disdain'd to sink beneath ; 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath ! 

Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battlp-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd ! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong; 
Thou shalt not be deplored. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLB. 

Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of" the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, tliough a king's, in your path: 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my I)uckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe. 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to ray royalty, son of ray heart ! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
Or kingly the death which awaits us to-day I 



SAUL. 

Thou whose spell can raise tbe dead, 

Bid the prophet's form appear. 
" Samuel, raise thy buried heaij ! 
King, behold the phantom seer!" 
Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there. 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, 
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak. 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. . 



HKRRKW MKLUOIKb. 878 

*• Why is my slcpp disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, O King? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limhs, and coldi 
Such are mine; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
Ere the coming day is done. 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, hut for a day, 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy rare, lie pale and low. 
Pierced by shafts of many a how ; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hatid shall guide; 
Crown less, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the bouse of Saul !" 



•ALl IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHML* 

Kamk, wisdom, love, and power wort 

And health and youth possess'd me; 
My goblets blush'd from every vine, 

And lovely forms caress'd me^ 
I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes. 

And felt my soul grow tender; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize. 

Was mine of regal splendour. 

I strive to number o'er what da\s 

Remembrance can rliscover. 
Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 
There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 

Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
And not a trapping deck'd my power 

That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming, 
But that which coils around the heart. 

Oh ! who hath power of charming? 
It will not list to wisdom's lore. 

Nor music's voice can lure it; 
But there it slinks for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



3ft HEBREW MELODIES. 

WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 

Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darken'd dust behiad. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, alt in earth, or skies displayed, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall: 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appears. 

Before Creation peopled earth. 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth. 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
WLile sun is quench'd or system brean. 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing. 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 

The King was on his throne, 

The Satraps throng'd the hall} 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold. 

In Jiidah deeni'd divine — 
Jehovali's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine. 



HEBREW MELODIES. |7K 

In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand* 

The monarch saw, and shook. 

And hade no more rejoice ; 
All hloodless wax'd his look, 

And tremulous his voice. 
" Let the men of lore appear. 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear, 

Which mar our royal mirth." 

Chaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore ; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — hut knew no moM« 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command. 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

" Belshazzar's grave is made. 

His kingdom pass'd away. 
He, it> the halaiice weigh'd, 

Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud, his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone: 
The Mede is at his gatel 

The Persian on his throne 1" 



3T6 HEBREW MELODIES. 

SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS ! 

Sun of the sleepless I melancholy star ! 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 
How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays 
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
Distinct, but distant — clear — but oh, how cold 1 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST 
IT TO BE. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 

I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 

It was but abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race t 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! 
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 
In his hand is ray heart and my hope — and in thine 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.* 

Oh, Mariamne I now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; 
Revenge is lost in agony, 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Ob, Mariamne 1 where art thou ? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading. 
Ah 1 couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 

And is she dead ? — and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving ? 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair: 

The sword that smote her's o'er me waving.— ■ 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love I 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above. 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 



■BBRBW MELODIES. 377 

Shi's gone, who shared my diadem ; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem, 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming; 
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well. 

Which unconsumed are still consuming I 



ON THE DAT OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERU- 
SALEM BY TITUS. 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
I lieheld thee, oh Sion ' when render'd to Rome: 
' I'was thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home. 

And forgot for a moment my bondage to come; 

I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane. 

And the fast fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. 

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. 

And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away : 
Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's headl 

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
And Ecatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh Father, is only for thee. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN 
AND WEPT. 

W« sate down and wept by the waters 

Of Babel, aud thought of the day 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 

Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
And ye, oh her desolate daughters 1 

Were scatter'd all weeping away. 

While sadly we gazed on the river 
Which roU'd on in freedom below, 



S78 HKBRliW MKLODIES. 

They deinaiidei! the song; but, oh never 
That triumph the stranger shall know! 

May this right hand he wither'd for ever, 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is jtispended. 
Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee ; 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the l«»ve8 of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever grew still* 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But though it there roU'd not the breath of his pride: 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmbted by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Loidl 



BEHKKW MELOUIKI. 379 

A SPIRIT PASS'D BEFORE MB. 

FROM JOB. 

A SPIRIT pass'd before me : I helicid 

The tdce of immortality unveil'd — 

Dee|) sleep came liown on every eye save mine— . 

And there it siood, — all formless — but divine: 

Along my hones the creeping flesh did quake; 

And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake: 

" Is man more just than God ? Is man more pun 
Than he who deems ev'n Seraphs insecure? 
Creatuies of clav — vain dwellers in the dust! 
The moth survives vou. and are ye more just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere tiie night, 
Heedless aud biiad to Wiedom's wasted light I* 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



FARE THEE WELL.I 



"Alas 1 they had been friends in youth} 
But whispering tongues can poison trutll 
And constancy lives in realms above; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 
And to be wrotli with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain : 
« • a • 

But never either tound another 

To free the hollow heart from paining— 

Thoy stood aloof, and scars remaining. 

Like cliiTs, which had been rent asunder | 

A dreary sea now flows between, 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 

Shall wholly do away, I ween. 

The marks of that which o ace hath been." 

CoLKBiooK'a ChritloMt 



Fare the well! and if for ever, 

Still for ever, fare Ihee well : 
Ev'n though uaforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain. 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know agaio: 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show ! 

Then thou wouldst at last discover 
'Twas not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee— 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Ev'n its praises must oSend thee. 
Founded on another's woe : 

Though my many faults defaced me. 

Could no other arm be found, 
Than the one which once embraced m«, 

To inflict a cureless wound ? 



WUMKbTlC PIECBS. 381 

Yet, oil ) c(, thyself deceive not ; 

Lovi! amy 6iiik b> sluw decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe uot 

Hearts cau thus be turu av\ay : 

Still thine own its lite retaineth — 

Still must mine, tiiougo bleeding, beat; 
And the undying thuuglit which painetli 

is — that we uo more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 

Tbaa the wail above the dead; 
Both shall live, but every morrow 

M ake us from a wiuow'd bed. 

And when thou wouldst solace gather, 

\\ ben our child's tirst accents tlow, 
Wilt tliou leach her to say " 1-atiier 1" 

Though his care she must lorego? 

When her little bauds shall press thee, 

W heo her lip to chine is press'd. 
Think of him wliose pra>er shall bless tiM% ' 

Think of him thy liivc had bless'd I 

Should her lineaments resemble J 

Those thou never iiiore may'st see, ] 

Then ;hy liearl will softly ireinble )| 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou knowest, 

Aii my madness none can know; 
Ati my hojies, where'er thou goest, 

Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath lieen shaken ; 

Pndc, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee — by tliee forsaken, 

Ev'n my soul forsakes me now : 

But 't's done — all words are idle — 

Words from me are vainer still ; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle 

Force their way without the will.— ' 

Fan» the well ! — thus disunited. 

Torn fro.iii every nearer lie, 
Sear'il in heart, and lone, and blighted 

More than this I scarce can dia. 



382 DOMESTIC FIBCES. 

A SKETCH.* 

" Honest — honest lago I 

If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 

BoKN in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 

Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 

Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd, 

And from its wages only to be guess'd — 

Raised from the toilet to the talkie, — where 

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair, 

With eye unmoved, and foreliead unabash'd, 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 

The genial confidante, and general spy — 

Who could, ye gods ! her next emj)loyment gue»«— • 

An only infant's earliest governess ! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 

That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows. 

As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 

What she had made the pupil of her art. 

None know — but that high Soul secured the heart. 

And panted for the truth it could not bear, 

With longing breast and undeluded ear. 

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind. 

Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not bliadf 

Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 

Indulgence weaken — nor example spoil — 

Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down 

On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 

Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain — 

Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 

Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion boWf 

Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 

Serenely purest of her sex that live, 

But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, 

Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 

She deems that all could be like her below : 

Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 

For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme : — now laid aside too long, 
The baleful burthen of this honest song — 
Though all her former functions are no more, 
She rules the circles which she served before. 
If mothers — none know why — before her qnaket 
If daughteirs dreac her for the mothers' sake; 
If early habits— those false links, which Wild 
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 



DOMESTIC FIRCBS. 383 

« 

Have given her power too deeply to Jnstil 

The aiif^ry essence of lier deadly will; 

If like a snake she steal within your walls, 

Till the Ijlack slime betray her as she crawls; 

If like a viper to the heart she wind, 

And leave the venonj there she did not find; 

What marvel that this hag of hatred works 

Eternal evil latent as she lurks. 

To make a Pandemoniuiu where she dwells, 

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells? 

Skill'd l)y a touch to deepen scandal's tints 

With all the kind mendacity of hints, 

While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers with smilee^i 

A thread of condour with a web of wiles ; 

A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming. 

To hide her bloodless h.-art's soul-harden'd scheming; 

A lip of lies — a face form'd to conceal ; 

And, without feelinir, mork ai all who feel: 

With a vile mask the Gorgon WDubl disown; 

A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 

Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 

Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 

Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 

Or darKir grcnness of the sror|)ion'8 scale — 

(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 

Congpnial colours in that sonl or face) — 

(,ook on her feanires! anil behold her mind 

As in a mirror of itself defined : 

Look on the picture! deem it not o'erchargtd — 

There is no trait which might not be enlarged: 

Yet true tn " Nature's journeymen," who made 

riiis rnonsii-r wtien their mistress left otf trade— 

This female dng-stai of her little sky, 

Whcr'" all beneath her influence ilrnop or die. 

Ob! wr'tiii wiiltoiit a tear — without a thought, 
Save jov above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
Tl:e time sbali corac, nor long remote, when thou 
Shalt feel fnr more than thou inflictesi now; 
F"''l for ihv vilf "cK-loving self in vain. 
And turn ihi-e bo.\liiig in iiii|>iticd pain. 
\lav th>- <iroiir curse of cnisliM iitfeitions light 
Hack OM u:\ oosoni with rcfl.'i-ted blight! 
\!id make ib-e in 'bv .-pni-.y of iiiiiKi 
>.s luaih^o!!!' to liyself il^ .o mankind! 
Till al: thy hard heart be calcined into dust. 
And thv soul welter in if'* hideous crust. 
Oh. mav ih) grave be sleepless as the bed,— 
The wifi'iw'd cDiicli of fire, that tboii hast spread! 
Then, wln-n ibon fain wonldsi weary Heaven with prajrw 
Look on thine i-arthly victims— and despair I 



384 DOMESTIC PIECBS. 

Down to the dust! — and, as thou rott'st away, 
Ev'n worms shall peiish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers— 
And festering in the infamy of years. 

March M, Mt, 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.' 

When all around grew drear and dark, 
And reason halt wiihheld her ray — 

And hope but shed a d)ing spark 
Which more misled my lonely way; 

In that deep midnight of the mind, 
And that internal strife of heart, 

When dreading lo be deem'd too kind, 
The weak despair — the cold depart 

When fortune changed — and love fled far, 
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast. 

Thou wert the solitary star, 

Wluch rose, and set not to the last. 

Oh I blest be *hine unbroken light ! 

That watch'd me as a serajjh's eye, 
And stood between me and the night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

And when the cloud upon us came, 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray—- 

Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 
And teach it what to brave or brook— 

There's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree. 
That still unbroke, though gently bent, 

Still waves witli fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monuioent. 

The winds might rend — the skies might pour 
But there thou wcrt — and still wofaldst b« 

Dcfoted in the stormiest hour 
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 



nuMESTIC IMKCCS. 3M 

Uut tliou and thine shall know no blight, 

Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
For heaven in sunshine will requite 

The kind — and thee the most of alL 

Then let the ties of baffled love 

Be broken — thine will never break; 
Thy heart can feel— but will not move; 

Thy soul, though soft, will never shake 

And these, when all was lost beside, 

Were found and still are fixed in thee ^— 

And bearing still a breast so tried. 
Earth is no desert — ev'n to me 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.* 

Thouoii the day of ray destiny 's over, 

And the star of my fate hatli declined 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though tliy soul with my grief was acquainted 

It shrunk not to share it with me, . 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
Aud when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd. 

And its fragments are sunk in.the wave. 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn-* 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 
Though wuman, thou didst not forsake. 

Though loved, thou forbo?est to grieve me. 
Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,— 



==JJ 



5S6 DOMESTIC PIECES. 

Though trusted thou didst not disclaim me» 

Though parted, it was not to fly, 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame mOi 

Nor, mute, that the world might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it. 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error has cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee. 
I have found that, whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wieck of the past, which hath perish' d. 

Thus much I at least may recall. 
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 

Deserved to be dearest of all ; 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wild waste there still is a tree, 
And a bird in the solitude singing, 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 



EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. 

My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine, 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 
Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destiny, — 

A woild to roam through, and a home with tIiM> 

The first were nothing — had I still the last, 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's* fate of yore,— 
He hath no rest at sea, nor I ou shore. 

If my inheritance of storms hath been 

In other elements, and on the rocks 

Of perils, overlook' d or uiiforseen, 

I have sustain 'd my share of worldly shocks, 

The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 

My errors with defensive paradox : 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 387 

J have been cunning iu mine overthrow 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward, 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave nic being, gave nie that which marr'd 
The gift — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray 
\nd 1 at times have found the struggle bard, 
And thought of shaking ott" my bonds of clay: 
But now 1 fain would for a time survive. 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 

Kingdoms and empires in my liitie day 
1 have outlived, and yet I am not oid ; 
And when 1 look ou this, the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roli'd 
Like a wild bay of breaker'-, melts away: 
Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain. 
Even fnr its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhajis a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul jefer, 
Anfl with light armour we may learii to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 

In happy childhood ; trees, and tlowers, and DroOKa 

^Vhich do remember me of where I dwelt 

Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books. 

Come as of yore upon me, and can n'elt 

My heart with recognition ol iheir looks ; 

And even at moments 1 could think I see 

Sotne living thing to love — but none like thee. 

Here are the .\lpine landscapes which create 

A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 

Is a brief feeling of a trivial date; 

But something worihier do such scenes inspire 

Here to he lonely is not desolate. 

For much I view which I could most desire, 

And above ail, a lake i Caii oenoiu 

Lovelier, not dearer, tlian our ow n of old. 

Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise iu this but one regret; 



388 DOMESTIC PIECRS. 

There may be others which I less may show ;— 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 

I did remind thee of our own dear Lake.^ 
By the old Hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they at* 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply— 
It is but with her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle in the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one; 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 
The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would have slept 
/ had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 

With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with Love, and least of all with Fame: 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew. 
And made me all which they can make — a name, 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day : 
Having survived so many things that were ; 
My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fiU'd a century 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 



DOMESTIC PIECES. SB9 

And for the remnant which may be to come 
I am content ! and for the pust I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
And for the present, I would not benumb 
My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this 1 still can look around, 

And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine : 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art- 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
It is the same, together or apart, 
From life's commencement to its slow decline 
We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
Tbe tie which bound the first endures ih« Ufttl 



MONODY ' 

ON THK 

DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. 

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRB. 



When the last sunshine of expiring day 

In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 

Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 

Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 

With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 

While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 

Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time - 

Of light and darkness forms an arch subhme, 

Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 

The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep 

A holy concord — and a bright regret, 

A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 

'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe. 

Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 

Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 

A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 

Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 

Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Ev'n as the tenderness that hour instils 
When Summer's day declines along the hills, 
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes. 
When all of Genius which can perish dies. 
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 
Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour 
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name 
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ; 
The flash of Wit — the bright Intelligence, 
The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
The enduring produce of immortal Mind: 
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
But small that portion of the wondrous whole? 
Thess sparkling segments of that circling sou\» ■ 



MONODY OK SHSRIOAn. 391 

Which all ombraced — and lighten 'd overall, 

To cheer — 10 |)ierce — to please — or to a]>pal, 

From tlie charin'd council to the festive board, 

Of liuiii;in feelings the unbounded lord ; 

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 

The praised — the proud — who made his praise their piidCh 

When the loud cry of trampled llindostan 

Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 

His was the thunder — his the avenging rod. 

The wrath — tlie (lelci;iUcd voice of God ! 

NVhich shook tite nations through his lips — and blazed 

Till vauquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 

And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm 
The gay creations of his spirit charm. 
The inalcliless dialogue — the deathless wit, 
Which knew not what it was to intermit; 
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 
Home to our hearts the truth from which they springs 
These wondrous beings of his Fancy wrought 
To fulness by the fiat of his thought, • 
Here in their first abode you still may meet, 
Bright with the hues of his Fromethean heat; 
A hulo of the light of other days, 
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight. 
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own 
Siiil let them pause — ah! little do ihey know 
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo«. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise; 
Ki'puse denies htr requiem to his name, 
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame, 
The secret enemy whose 3lee])less eye 
Stands sentinel — accuser — ^judge — and spy. 
The fue— the fool — the jealous — and the vain. 
The envious who liut breathe in others' pain, 
llehold the host! delighting to deprave, 
Who tracks the steps of Glory to the grave, 
Watch every fault that dariiie Genius owes 
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, 
Ihslort the truth, accumulate the lie. 
And pile the pyramid of Calumny ! 
These are his jjortion — but if join'd to these 
Gaiitit poverty should league with deep Disease, 
If the liigh Spirit iriust forget to soar, 
And stouu to strive with Misery at the door 



892 MONODT ON SilSRIDAK. 

To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
Meet sordid Rage — and wrestle with Disgraeet 
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress, 
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness i— 
If such may be the ills which men assail, 
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail? 
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from Heaven, 
Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
Driver, o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
Thuv::;bts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch— and 
burst. 

But far from us and from our mimic scene 
Such things should be — if such have ever been 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task. 
To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 
To mourn the vauish'd beam — and add our mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
Ye Orators 1 whom yet our councils yield, 
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field 1 
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three I 
Whose words were sparks of Immortality ! 
Ye Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, 
He was your Master — emulate him here/ 
Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
He was your brother — bear his ashes hence I ^ 

While Powers of mind almost of boundless range 
Complete in kind — as various in their chauge, 
While Eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and Mirth, 
That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth, 
Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, 
Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain. 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man* 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan. 



THE DREAM. 



I 

Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 

A Itouiidary heiween the things misnamed 
Dcatli anrt existence : Sleep hath its own worlds 
.\ii(l a wide realm of wild reality, 
And dreams in their development have breath, 
An<l tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughti, 
They take a weight Irom oft' our waking toils, 
ThfV do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity; 
'Iht-y pass like spirits of the past. — they speak 
Like sibyis of the future; they have power — 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They n.ake us what we were not — what they wiUi 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Ave ihcy so? 
is not the past all shadow ? What are they ? 
Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make 
Snb.-tance, and people planets of its own 
Wnh beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breiith to forms w hich can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which 1 dream'd 
I'erchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A sliinibering thuught, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 
1 saw two liKiiigs in ilic hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild declivity, the last. 
As 'twere tiie cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
Itut a uiost living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of fflOl 
Scatti r'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
AiiMiig from such rustic roofs; — the hill 
\\a.- crofrn'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
Not by till' N|.OPt of nature, but of mant 
riiese two, a maiden and a yonth, were thare 
M 



y 



394 THE DREAK. 

Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 

Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 

,\nd both were young, and one was beautiful: 

And both were young — yei not alike in youth. 

As the sweet moon on tiie liofiion's verge, 

The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 

The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 

Had far outgrown his years, an<i lo his eye 

There w:is but one beloved face on earih, 

And that was shining on him; he had look'd 

Upon it till it could not pass away ; 

He hail no breath, no being, but in hers: 

She was his voice; he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words: slie was his sieht, 

For his eyes followM hers, and saw with hers, 

Which colour'd all his objects : — he had ceased 

To live witliin himself; she was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all : u))on a tone, 

A touch of hers, bis blood would el)b and tlovr. 

Ami his cheek change tempestuously — his hear! 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

Hut she ill these fond feelings had no share: 

Ili^r sighs were not for him ; to her he was 

Ev'n as a l)rother — but no more; 'twas mujQ, 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on ni'ji; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a titiic-houour'd race. — It was a name 

^^ liich pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why? 

Time tauglit hinri a deep answer — when sne loved 

Another ; even now she loved another, 

And on the summit of that hill she stood 

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

III. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed camparisora'd : 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of wliom I spake ! — he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
'.Vo'-ds which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
His how'd hrad on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
With a couvul.-iion — then arose again, 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What lie had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix iiis brow 






THE DREAM. S9^ 

Into a kind of quiet; as lie paused, 

The Lady of Ins love re-enter'd there; 

Slie was s^crette and snniing then, and yet 

She know she was hy him beloved, — she knew, 

Iv)r <iuiikly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

\\';is darkeu'd with her shadow, and she saw 

That he w as wretched, luit she saw not all.* 

He rose, and with a colil and gentle grasp 

He took her hand ; a nionumt o'er his face 

A lalilet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow step» 

Kitircd, htit not as bidding her adieu, 

For they <lid part with mutual smiles ; he pass'4 

From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way; 

And ne'er repass'd thai noary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
l)f fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he wa« a wanderer; 
Tiic-re was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and m the lust he lay 
lU•po^ing friiu) the noontide sultriness, 
tonch'd anong fallen eolunins, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those wlio rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and son.e guodly steeds 
M'cre fasien'd near a fountain; anil a man 
(lad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
W bile many of Ins tribe sluuiber'd around: 
And they were canopied by the blue sky. 
So clondlfss, clear, and purely beautiful. 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaten. 



A chnngc came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The l.ady of his love was wed with One 
Who did not love her better : — in her home, 
A tho'i'.ind Icnirnes from his, — her native honM^ 
^he dwelt, begirt w'V'i growing Infimey, 
Daughters and sons of Heauty, — bin behold 1 
Upon her /ace there was the tint of grief, 
The settled Rhadow of an inwanl strife. 



396 THK DRKAM. 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
Wiiat could her grief be ? — she had all she loved, 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
Or ill repress'd aifliction, her pure thoughts. 
Wiiat (jou-ld her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved. 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw hira stand 

Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 

The Starlight of his Boyliood ; — as he stood 

Ev'n at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 

That in the antique Oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of uniiterable thoughts 

Was traced — and then it faded as it came. 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 

And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have baen- 

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 

And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 

All things pertaining to that place and hour, 

And her who was his destiny, catne back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light: 

What business had they there at such a time?-' 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was changed, 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift; 



THK DRKAU. $99 



What is it but the felescope of truth ? 
M'liich str,i<» v'.jc distance of its fantasiei, 
A:)(l brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real I 

VIII. 

k change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wandcrei was alone as heretofore, 

The brings which surrouinled him were gone, 

Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 

For bhght and desolation, conipass'd round 

^N it!) llatrert a.ii Contention ; Pain was mix'd 

In all which was served up to him, until, 

Like to the Pontic monarch of o'd days,'* 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power. 

But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

And made hin) friends of mountains: with the stut 

And the t|uicR. opifit of the Universe 

He held his dia'.oi^iies ! and they did teach 

To him the maizic of their mysteries ; 

To him the booK of Night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel ;<•"' ■» secret — Be ii so 

IX. 

My dream was past! it had do further change, 

It was of a stianve order, that the doom 

Of these two creaiuies should be thus traced Mlk 

Almost like a rtaiiiv — the one 

To end in niadneji.* — uot'i in m»se;y. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



At Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the original MSS. ot 
I'asso's Gierusalemme and of Guanni's Pastor Fido, with letters of 
Fasso, one from Titian to Ariosto, and the inkstand and chair, the 
tomb and the house, of the latter. But, as misfortune has a greater 
itterest for posterEy, and little or none for the contemporary, the 
cell where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a 
more fixed attention than the residence or the monumentof Ariosfo — 
at least it had this effect on me. There are two inscriptions, one on 
the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, 
the wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much 
decayed, and depopulated ; the castle still e.\ists entire ; and I saw 
the court where Pariaina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the 
annal of Gibbon.l 



I. 
Long years! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
And eagle-spirit of a child of Song — 
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood. 
When the impatient thirst of light and air 
Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain* 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain; 
And bare, at once. Captivity display'd 
Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate. 
Which nothing through its bars admits, save day. 
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
And I can banquet like a oeast of prey, 
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave. 
Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave,* 
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; 
For I have battled with mine agony. 
And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; 
And revell'd among men and things divine. 
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
In honour of the sacred war for Him, 
The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 
For he has sirengthen'd me in heart and limb. 
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 



TRB LAMKNT OF TA880. S99 

I have eniploy'd ir.y ppiiance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won and how adored. 

II. 

But thii is o'er — jt.v pleasant task is done :— 

My l(iii!;-sustaining friend of tnany years! 

If I i!o blot thy final page with tears. 

Know, that my sorrow:) have wrung from me none. 

iiut thou, my young creation ! my soul's child I 

W hich ever playing round mo came and smiled. 

And woo'd ine from mybclf with thy sweet sight, 

Thou too art gone — and so is my delight: 

And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 

Witii this last bruise upon a broken reed. 

Thou loo art ended — what is left me now? 

For I have anguish yet to bear — and how 

i know not that -but in the innate force 

Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 

I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 

Nor cause for sucli : they call'd me mad — and VI174 

Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 

I was inrleed delirious in my heart 

T lift my love so lofty as thou art; 

Out still my frenzy was not of the mind; 

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 

Not less because I suiter it unbent. 

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind 

Bui let ihein go, or torture as they will, 

My heart can multiply thine image still; 

Successful love may sate itself away. 

The wretched are the faithful : 'lis their fate 

To have all feeling save the one decay, 

And every passion into one dilate. 

As rapid rivers into ocean pour; 

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 

III. 
Above me, hark i the long and maniac cry 
Of minds and bodies in captivity. 
And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 
And the half-inarticulate blasphemy t 
There be some here with worse than frenzy foal, 
Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind, 
And dim the little light that's left behind 
With needless torture, as their tyrant will 
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:"* 
With these and with their victims am I class'd, 
'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'dt 
'Mill sights and sounds like tiiese my life may close: 
So let it be —for then 1 shall repose. - . 



400 THE LAMENT OF TASSO> 

IV. 

I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 
I had forgotten half I would forgetj 
But it revives — Oh! would it were my lot 
To be forgetful as I am forgot !— 
Fcei I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, 
Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 
And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
Many, but each divided by the wall. 
Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ',— 
While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call- 
None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all,* 
Who was not made to be the mate of these. 
Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here ? 
Who have debased me in the minds of men. 
Debarring me the usage of my own, 
Blighting my life in best of its career. 
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear? 
Would I not pay them back these pangs again. 
And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan? 
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
Which undermines our Stoical success ? 
No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
Have pardon 'd princes' insults, and would die. 
Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 
I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
It hath no business where thou art a guest; 
Thy brother hates — but I can not detest ;* 
Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 



Look on a love which knows not to despair,^ 

But all unquench'd is still my better part, 

Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart. 

As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, . 

Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 

Till struck, forth flies the alUetherial dart 

And thus at the collision of thy name 

The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, 

And for a moment all things as they were 

Flit by me; — they are gone — I am the same. 

And yet my love without ambition grew ; 

I knew thv state, my station, and 1 knew 

A Princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 

I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 



LAUBNT or TA8S0. 401 

Sufficient to itself, its own reward I 
AikI if my eyes reveal'd it, tlicy, alas! 
Were jninish'd by the silcntncss of thine, 
Anil yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wcrt to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallo w'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 
Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above I 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius master'd mine— 
My stir stood still i)efore thee : — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear; 
But thou art dearer still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me — but for thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest, 
Though heavy, lent nie vigour to sustain, 
And look to thee with undivided breast. 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain.' 
VI. 
Ft is no mnrvel — from my very birth 
My soul was drunk with love, — which did perridc 
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 
Of objects all inanimate I made 
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers. 
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 
Where I did lay me down within the shade 
Of waving trees, and dreain'd uncounted hours. 
Though I was chid for wandering; and the Wise 
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
Of such materials wretched men "vere made, 
And such a truant boy would end in woe, 
And that the only lesson was a blow; 
And then t ey smote me, and I did not weep, 
Rut cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
Heturn'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 
The visions which arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 
And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 
Hut undefined and wandering, till the day, 
I found the thing I sought — and that was thee J 
And then I lost my being all to be 
AI)sorb'<l in thine — the world was past away— 
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 



402 AM EXT OF TA&SO. 

VII. 

[ loved all Solitude — but little thought 
To sijend I know not what of life, remote 
i'lciin all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant ; — l>ad 1 been ■ 
Their fellow, many years ere this ha<l seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, 
But who hath sc^n me writhe, or heard me rave? 
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore; 
The world is all before him — mine is here, 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier« 
What though fie perish, he may lift his eye 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although 'tis clouded by ray dungeon roof. 

VIII. 

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 

But with a sense of its decay : — I see 

Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 

.^nd a strange demon, who is vexing me 

\Vit.h pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 

The feeling of the healthful and the free; 

ihitmuch to One, who long hath sutter'd so, 

Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 

And all that may he borne, or can debase. 

1 thought mine enemies had been but Man, 

but S[)irits may be leagued with them — all Earth 

A.handons — Heaven forgets me; — in the dearth 

Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 

Jt may be, tempt me further, — and prevail 

'\gainst the outworn cri.aturc they assail. 

Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 

Like steel in tempering fire ? because 1 loved ? 

Because I loved what not to love and see, 

M'as more or less than mortal, and than me. 

IX. 

1 once was quick in feeling — that is o'er; — 
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd 
In mockery through them; — if I bear and bore 
The much I have recounted, and the more 
Which hath no words, — 'tis that I would not die 
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull 
Which snared me here, and with the brand of shama 
Stamp Madness deep into my memory, 
And woo Compassion to a blighted name, 
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
Nft — it shall be immortal 1 and I make 



TH8 LAMKNT OF TASBO. 403 

A future temple of my present cell, 

Which lUitions yet shall visit for my sake. 

While thou, Fcrrara ! when no longer dwell 

The ducal chiefs within thee, shall fall down. 

And crumbling; piecemeal view thy hearthless halU, 

A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, — 

A poet's dungeon thy most far renown. 

While stranger's wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls 1 

And thou, Leonora! — thou — who wert ashamed 

That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 

To less than raonarchs that thou couldst be dear, 

do! tell thy brother, that m\ heart, untamed 

I5y grief, years — weariness — and it may be 

A taint of that he would impute to me — 

From long infection of a den like this. 

Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, 

Adores thee still; — and add — that when the towers 

And battlements which guard his joyous hours 

Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot. 

Or left untcndcd in a dull repose, 

This — this — shall be a consecrated spot! 

But thou — when all tl;at iiirth and Beauty throwi 

Of magic round tliee is extinct — shall have 

One halt the laurel wliicli o'er-^hadcs my grave. 

jNo power in deatii can tear our nanes apart. 

As none in life cculd rend ihce from my heart., 

Yes, Leonora! it shall be our faie 

To be c :it\Mn€d for ever— but too iatft ! 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 

BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS.i 

■VaaKSTBO BY THE COMFOSITION SO ENTITLED BYTHE AOIHOI 
OF " WAT TYLER." 



" A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel 1 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 



PREFACE. 

It hath been wisely said, that, " One fool makes many;" and it 
hath been poetically observed, 

" That fools rush in where angels fear to tread." — Pope. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no business, 
and where he never was before, and never will be again, the fol- 
lowing poem would not have been written. It is not impossible 
that i: may be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any 
^pecies of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross 
flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and im- 
pious cant, of the poem by the author of " Wat Tyler," arc some- 
thing so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself — containing 
the quintessence of his own attributes. 

So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In thij preface 
it has pleased the magnanimous Liuueale to draw the picture of 
a supposed " Satanic School," the which he dolh recommend to 
the nolice of the legislatu^ ; thereby adding to his other laurels 
the ambition of those of an informer. If there exists any where, 
excepting in his imagination, such a School, is he not sufficiently 
armed against it by his own intense vanity? The truth is, that 
there are certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to 
have " talked of him ; for they laughed consumedly." 

I think 1 know enough of most of tl.e writers to whom he is 
su])llo^e<l to allude, to assert, that they, in their individual capa- 
cities, have done more good, in the charities of life, to their fellow 
creaiisres in a;"y one year, tlian Mr. Soulliey has done haiin to 
liimseif by his, absurdities in his whole life: and this is saying d 
great deal. But I ha^e a few questions to ask. 

Islly, I.s Mr. Southey llic aiulior of " Wat Tyler?" 

2(ily, ^^^ls he not refused a remedy at law by the highe-stjuogo 
of his beloved England, because it was u blasphemous and sedi- 
tious publication ?2 

3iL'y, Was he not eniilled by William Smith, in full parha- 
nient " a rancorous renegado ?"3 

4tliiy, Is he not poet laincale, with his own lines on Martin 
lUe ii>i<M.lc siiuinj; liim in liielace?* 

Ami. .^thly. Putting the lour preceding items together, witii 



THB VISION OF JUUQMENT. 405 

«bat coDscience dare he call the atteution of ihu laws to tlic pub- 
lications of others, be th'" what ihoy may? 

I aay nothing of the CKnardice of such a proceeding; its mean- 
ness spcalis for itself; but I wish to touch upon the mo/«t'e, which 
is neither more nor leis than that Mr. S. has been laughed at 
a little in some recent publications, as he was of yore in the 
" Auii-jacobin" by his present patrons."^ Hence all this 
" skimblc-scamble stuff" about " Satanic," and so forth. How* 
tver, it is worthy of him — " qualit ab hioeplo." 

If there is anything obnoxious to the political opinions of a 
portion of tlie public in the following poem, they may thank Mr. 
Southey. He might have written hexameters, as he has written 
every thing else, for aught that the writer cared — hud they been 
upon another subject. But to attempt to canonise a monarch, 
who, whatever were his household virtues, was neither a success- 
ful nor a patriot king,— inasmuch as several years of his reign 
passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the 
aggression upon France, — like all other exaggeration, necessarily 
begets opposition. In whatever manner he may be spoken of in 
this new ■' Vision," his public career will not be more favourably 
transmitted by history. Of his private virtues (although a little 
tx]icnsive to the nation) there can be no doubL 

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can 
only say that I know as much about them, and (as ;ui honest 
man) have a better right to talk of them, than Robert Southey. 
I have also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which that 
poor insance creature, the Laureate, deals about his jud'jnient in 
the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If it was not 
Bwmplelely ludicrous, it would be somclhing worse. I don't think 
that there is much more to say at present. 

QOEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

P. S. — Is it possible that some readers may object, in these ob- 
jectionable times, to the freedom with which sainta, angels, and 
spiritual persons discourse in this "Vision." But, for precedents 
upon such points-, I must refer him to Fielding's " Journey from 
this World lo the next," and to the Visions of myself, tlie said 
Queve<lo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is also rc4iie-.l(;ii 
to observe, thatno doctrinal tenets are insisted upon ordiscus-^ed ; 
that the person of the Deity is carefully withheld from sight, 
which is more than can be said for the Laureate, who hiilh 
thought proper to make him talk, not " like a school divine," 
but like the uuseholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole aciion passes 
on the outsideof heaven : and Chauecrs Wile of Baili. I'ulci's 
Morgante Maggiore, Swift's Tale of a Tub, and other works above 
referred to, are cases in point of the freedom with whicli saints, 
tec. may be permitted to converse in works not intended to be 
•erious. Q. R. 

•»• Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good Christian and vin- 
dictive, threatens, I understand, a reply to this our answer. I', 
is to be hoped that his visionary faculties will in the mean lime 
have acquired a little more judgment, properly so called : olhci- 
wisebe will get himself into new dilemmas. These apostate 
jacobins furnish r^oinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. 
Southey laudeth grievously " one Mr. Landor," who culiivatos 
mnrh private renown in Ihr shape of Latin rerscs; and noi 



406 THE VISION OV JUDGMENT. 

long ago, ihe poet laureate dedicated to him, it ai>peareih, one of 
his fugitive lyrics, upon the strength of a poem called Gebir 
Who could suppose, that in this same Gchir the aforesaid Sa- 
vage LandorB (for such is his grim cognomen) puttelh into the 
infernal regions no less a person than the liero of his Iriead Mr 
Southey's heaven, — yea, even George the Third ! See also how 
personal Savage becometh, when he hath a mind- The follow 
ing is his portrait of our late gracious sovereign : — 

^Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions, the 
shadei> of his royal ancestors are, at his request, called up to 
his view, and he exclaims to his ghostly guide) — 

" A roar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wretch 
Is that with eyebrow* white and slanting brow? 
Listen ! him yonder, who, bound down supine. 
Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hang. 
He too amongst my ancestors ! I hate 
The despot, but the dastard I despise. 
Was he our countryman ?" 

" Alas, O king ! 
Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 
Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east." 
" He was a warrior then nor fear'd the gods ?" 
" Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not the gods, 
Though them indeed his daily face ador'd; 
And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling. 
And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 
Oh madness of mankind ! address' d, adored !" 

Gebir, p. 38. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Savagius, wish- 
ing to keep the proper veil over them, if his grave but some- 
what indiscreet worshipper will suffer it ; but certainly these 
teachers of " great moral lessons" are apt to be found in strange 
company. 



Saint PntER sat by the celestial gate: 
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull. 

So little trouble had been given of late ; 
Not that tlie place by any means was full, 

But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight" 
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull. 

And " a pull all together," as they say 

At sea — which drew most souls another way. 

II. 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 
And hoarse with having little else to do, 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
Or ctirb a runaway young star or two, 



THK VISION or JUOOMBNT. 409 

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 

Broke out of bounds o'er the etherial blue, 
Splitting some planet with its playful tail. 
As buats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 

III. 
The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 

Fintling their charges past all care below; 
Terrestrial business till'd nuuglit in the sky 

S;ive the recording angel's black bureau; 
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 

With such rapiiiity of vice and woe, 
That lie had stripp'd off both his uings in quillt, 
And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

IV. 

His business so augmented of late years, 
That he was forced, a;j;ainst his will no doubt> 

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers'^ 
For some resource to turn himself about, 

\iia ciiiim the help of Ins celestial peers, 
Tu aid hini ere be should be quiie worn out, 

By the increused demand for his remarks ; 

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerkli 



This was a handsome board — at least for heaveo} 
And yet ttiey had even then enough to do, 

So muii\ cunquerors' cars were dail\ driven, 
So many kingdoms titled up anrw( 

Kiicli day too slew its thousands six or seven, 
Till at the c owning carnage, Waterloo, 

Tliry threw their pins down in divine disgust — 

The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust 

VI. 

TWs by the way ; 'tis not mine to record 

What angels shrink from: even the very devil 

On this occasion liis own work abhorr'd, 
So surfeited with the iiifein.d revel : 

Though be himself had >harpen'd every sword, 
It almost quench'd his innate thir!^t of evil. 

.Here Sathan's sole gond work deserves insertion— 

'lis, that he has both generals in reversion.) 

vu. 
Let's skip a few short years of liolldw peace. 

Which people earth no better, hell <is wont, 
And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease, 

With niithinn but new names subscribed unon'tt 



i J8 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 

'TwiJl one (lay finish : meantime they increase, 

'• SV itii seven heads and ten horns," and all in front. 
Like s-aint John's foretold beasts ; but ours are born 
Less formidable in the head than horn. 

VIII. 

In the first year of freedom's second dawn^ 

Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one 

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
Left hiin nor mental nor external sun ; 

A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 
A worse king never felt a realm undone! 

lie (lied — but left his subjects still behind, 

One half as mad — and t'other no less blind. 

IX. 

lie died ! — his death made no great stir on earth ; 

His burial made some pomp; there was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 

Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion, 
For these things may be bought at Iheir true worth; 

Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 



Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 

The fools who flock'dHo swell or see the show, 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 

There throbb'd not there a thought which pierrod the pall; 
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 

It seem's the mockery of hell to fold 

The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 



So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to w'hat it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to light 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air ; 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
What nature made him at his biith, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmiiinniied clay — 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII 

He's dead — and vip-)er envlh witi; him lias dona; 

II';"s bnried ; save tlie undertalver's Iiiii, 
Or lapidary scrawl, tlie world is gone 

For him. unless he left a German will; 



MB VISION Or JUDGMENT. 409 

Rill Where's tl»e proctor wlio will ask his son. 

In whom his qualities arc reigning still, 
Except that househohl virtue, must uncommon, 
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

XIII. 

" Got' "s-ave the king !" It is a large ecomonf 

In Ci.id 10 save the like; but if he will 
He saving, all the better; for not one am I 

Of those who think danuialion belter still: 
I hanilv know too if not quite alone am I 

In tliis small hope of bettering future ill 
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction. 
The eternity of hell s hot jurisdiction. 

XIV. 

know this is unpoi)ular ; I know 

'Tis blasphemous ; 1 know one may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else may ere be so; 

I know my catechism ; I know we're cramm'd 
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 

I know that all save England's church have shamm'd, 
And that ihc other twice tnp hundred churches 
And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase. 

XV. 

God help us nil ! God help me too ! I am, 
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 

And not a whit more diflicult to damn. 

Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb! 
Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish, 

As one day will be that immortal fry 

Of almost every body born to die. 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 

And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! there came 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
In short, a roar ofthings extremely great, 

Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim t 
But he, with first a start and then a wink. 
Said, " There's another star gone out, I think!" 

XVII. 

B.it ere he could return to his repose, 

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 
t which Saint Peter yawn'd and riibb'd his nose: 
*' Saint porter, said the angel, prithee rise 1" 



no THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 

V»'avir.g a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes 
To wliich the saint replied, " Well, what's the matter? 
fs Lucifer come back with all ihis clatter?" 

x-vni. 
'• No,'' quoth the cherub " George the Third is dead." 

" And who is George the Third ?" replied the apostle: 
' Whai George? what Third?" " The king of England,' 
said 

The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 
llim on his way; but does he wear his head ? 

Because the last we saw here had a tustle, 
And ne'er would have got into heaven's good grace*. 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 

XIX. 

" He was, if I remember, king of France;* 

That head of his, which could not keep a crown 

On earlh, yet ventured in my face to advance 
A claim to those of martyrs — like my own: 

If I had had my sword, as 1 had once 

When I cut ears off, I had cut him down ; 

But having but my keys, ami not my brand 

I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 

XX 

" And then he set up such a headless howl, 
That all the saints came oat and took him in ; 

And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
That fellow 'Paul — the parvenu ! The skin 

Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin, 

So as to make a martyr, never sped 

Better than did this weak and wooden head. 



" Rut had it come up here upon its snoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to tell: 

The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a sp^l; 

And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
Back on its trunk ; it may be very well, 

And seems the custom here to overthrow 

Whatever has been wisely' done below." 

XXII. 

The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
The king who comes has hrad and all entire, 

And never knew much «!iat it was about — 
He did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 



THE VISION OK JUDtiMENT. kl) 

\i>(l will be judged like all the rest, no doubt 
My business and your own is not to inquire 
Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 
Wliicli is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIII. 

Wiiile thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind. 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 

Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Ind?, 
Ur Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man 

M'ith an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
Halted beloie the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 



But bringing up the rear of this bright host 

A Spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved | 
His brow was like the deep when tempest toss'd; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face. 
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to he enter'd more by him or Sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate. 
As made Saint Peter wish himself within^ 

He palitr'd with his keys at a great rate, 
And sweated through his apostolic skin; 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 



The very cherubs huddled all together. 

Like birds when soars the falcon ! and they felt 

A tingling to the tip of every feather, 
And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 

Around their poor ohl charge; who scarce knew whitha 
His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 

With royal manes (for by many stories. 

And true, we learn the angels arc all Tories). 

XXVII. 

As things were in this posture, the gate flevy, 

Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
Flung over space an universal hue 

Of many colour'd flame, until its tiugea 



fp 



412 THE VISION OF JUDGMENi. 

Reach'd evn our speck of earth, and made a new 

Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice-bound. 
By Captain Parry's crew, in " Melville's Sound."* 

XXVIII. 

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
Victorfous from some world-o'erthrowing fight : 

My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
With earthly likenesses, for here the night 

Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 

Johanna Southcote,"> or Bob Soutbey raving. 

XXIX. 

'Twas the archangel Michael: all men know 
The make of angels and archangels, since 

There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince, 

There also are some altar-pieces, though 
I really can't say that they much evince 

One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 



Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise ; the portal past — he stpod ; 

Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary— 
(I say young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
To state, they were not older than St. Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before 
That arch -angelic hierarch, the first 

Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed 

Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 
No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst 

Intrude, however glorified and high ; 

He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 



He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 

They knew each other both for good and ill; 

Such was their power, that neither could forget 
His former friend and future foe ; but still 



TRB VISION OP JUDGMENT. 



413 



There was a higb, immortal, proud regret 

In cither's eye, as if 'twere less their will 
Than destiny to make the eternal years 
Their date of war, and their "champ clos" the spherM 



But here they were in neutral space : we know 
From Job, that Sathan hath the power to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 

And that " the sons of God," like those of clay, 

Must keep him company ; and we might show 
From the same book, in bow polite a way 

The dialogue is held between the Powers 

Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours. 



And this is not a theologic tract, 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, 

If Job, be allegory or a fact, 

But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act, 
Assets aside the slightest thought of trick. 

'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 

And accurate as any other vision. 

XXXV, 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 

The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds ii 

The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er. 
And souls dcspatch'd to that world or to this; 

And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect: though they did not kiss. 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modem beau. 

But with a graceful oriental bend, 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 
He turn'd as to an equal, not too low, 

But kindly; Sathan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

xxxvn. 

He merely bent his diabolic brow 

An instant; and then raising it, hcstood 

In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
Cause why King Geutge by no means could or should 



THK VISION OF JUDGMENT, 



Make out a case to be exempt from woe 

Eternal, more than other kings, cndiifd 
With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 
Who long have "paved hell with their good intentions.' 



Michael began : " What wouldst thou with this man, 
Now dead, and brought before the Lord ? What ill 

Hath he wrought since bis mortal race began, 
That thou canst claim him ? Speak ! and do thy will, 

If it be just : if in this earthly span 
He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 

His duties as a king and mortal, say. 

And he is thine ; if not, let him have way." 



• Michael," replied the Prince of Air, " even here, 
Before the Gate of him thou servest, must 

I claim my subject: and will make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust, 

So shall he be in spirit, although dear 
To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 

Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 

lie reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 



" Look to our earth, or rather mine ; it was 
Once, more thy master's : but I ti'iumph not 

In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 

With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
In worship round him, he may have forgot » 

Yon weak creation of such paltry things 

I think few worth damnation save their kings,-— 

XLI. 

" And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 

Assert my right as lord; and even had 
I such an inclination, 'twere (as you 

"Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad, 
That hell has nothing better left to do 

Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad 
And evil by their own internal curse, 
Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 

XLII. 

" Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 

When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm 

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign. 
The world and he both wore a different form, 



THE VISI[>N OF JT'DUMKXT. 4 IS 

And miich of earili anil all the watery plain 

Of ocean call'd liini king: tlimugh many a storm 
His isles liad floated on the a!)ysb of time; 
For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 

XLIIl. 

" I!e came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old 
Look to the state in which he fonnd his lealm, 

And left it; and his annals too behold. 
Ilow to a minion fin* he gave the helm: 

How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, 
The beggar's vice, which can l)ut overwhelm 

The meanest hearts; and for the rest, but glance 

Thine eye along Anu'rica and France. 



" 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last 
(I have the workmen safe') ; but as a tool 

So let him be consumed. From out the past 
Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 

Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 
Of sin and slaughter — from the C:esars' school, 

Take the worst pupil; and produce a reign 

More drench'd with gore more cuniber'd with the slain. 

XLV. 

" He ever warr'd with freedom and the free: 
Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 

So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty!' 

Found George the riiiril their first opponent. Whose 

History was ever stain'vl as bis will lie 
With national and individual woes? 

I grant his household abstineticr; 1 grant 

His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want; 

XLVI. 

" 1 know he was a constant consort; own 
He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 

All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
.\s temperance, if at Aiiicins' board, 

I* more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
1 Krant him all the kindest can accord; 

And this was well for him, but not for those 

.Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

XLVIl. 

" The New World shook him otl'; the Old yet groans 
HenHath what he and bis prepared, if not 

CoMipliicd: he leaves heirs on many thrones 
To all bis vices, without what begot • 



416 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 

Compassion for him— his tame virtues; drones 

Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot . 
A lesson which shall he re-taught them, wake 
Upon the thrones of earth; but let them quake! 

xi-vii:. 
•' Five millions of the primitive, who hold 

The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 
A part of that vast all they held of old, — 

Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 
MJchacl, but you, and you. Saint Peter! Cold 

Must he your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 
The foe to Catholic participation 
In all the license of a Christian nation. 



* True ! he allowed them to pray God : but as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

Which would have placed them upon the same bate 
With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 

But here Saini Peter started from his place. 
And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw: 

Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Giielph, 

While I am guard, mav I be damn'd myself! 



" Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure) 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that he sure \" 
" Saint 1" replied Sa ban, ''you do well to avenge 

The wrongs he made your satellites endure ;'2 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I'll try to coax aur Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI. 

Here Michael interposed: "Good saint! and devil! 

Pray, not so fast; \ou both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter! you were wont to be more civil: 

Sathan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level ■ 

Ev'n saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
Have you got more to say ?" — ' No."- -" If you please, 
I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 

LII. 

Then Sathan turn'd and waved nis swarthy hand, 
Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 

Clouds farther off tjian we can understand, 

Although we find him sonietinies in our skies; 



THK VISION OK JUMUMKNT. *17 

luRriinl iliuMiii-r t.liook bolli sea and land 

ill all the plaiieu, aixl hell's hatteries 
l.it lift' the artillery, which Milton mentions 
A& one ot Saihan's most sublime inventions. 

LIII. 

This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 

As have the privilege of their damnatioa 
Kxtended far beyond tiie mere controls 

Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no station 
's theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of hell assigii'd ; but where their inclination 
Or business carries them in search of game 
They may range freely — being damn'd the same. 

LIV. 

They're proud of this — as very well they may, 

It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 
Stuck in ihcir loins; or like an " entre"*^ 

Lp the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 
1 borrow my comparisons from clay, 

Lieing clay myself. Let not those spirits be 
i^ftendtd with such base low likenesses ; 
\Vt know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 

Wlicn the great signal ran from heaven to hell — 
About ten million times the distance reckon'd 

Ironi our sun to its earth, as we can tell 

How much time it takes up even to a second, 

For every ray that travels to dispel 

The fogs of Loudon, through which, dimly beacon'd 

The WL'ti'licriocks are gill some llirice a year, 

It I bat tftu ituinKcr is not too severe :i' — 

« 

LVI. 

I say iliat 1 can tell — 'twas half a minute: 
I kiKiw lh(' solar beams take up more time 

r.ic pack'd up fur their journey, they begin it 
lUit tht.'n their telegraiih is less suliiiine, 

And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Sathau's couriejs bound for their own cliOM. 

Tlip. sun takes up some years for every ray 

To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 

LVI I. 

Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of lialf-a-crown, a little speck apiicar'd 
; 've sren a .^oniething like it in the skiea 

In /Kgeaii, ere a H^ail) ; it near'd, 



418 THB VISION 0¥ JUDGMENT. 

And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 

Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and steer'd, 
Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer ;•— 

LVIII. 

3ut take your choice).; and then it grew a cloud; 

And so it was — ^ cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 

Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these; 
They shadow' d with their myriads space; their lofed 

And varied cries were like those of wild geese 
(If nations may be liken'd to a goose), 
And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose." 



Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : 

There Paddy brogued "ByJasus!" — "What's your wuil? 
The temperate Scot exclaim'd ; the French ghost swora 

In certain terms I sha'n't translate in full. 

As the first coachman will; and 'midst the war. 

The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 

'■ Our president is going to war, I guess." 

LX. 

Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane ; 

In short, a universal shoal of shades, 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years and trades. 
Ready to s«ear against the good king's reign, 

liitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
All summon'd by this grand " subpoena," to 
Try if kings nj^yn't be damn'd like me or you. 

LXI. 

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale. 

As angels can; next, like Italian twilight, 
He turn'd all colours— as a peacock's tail. 

Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight 
lu some old abi)ey, or a trout not stale. 

Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 
Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 

LXII. 

Then he address'd himself to Sathan: " Why — 
My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 

Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ;' 



THE VISION or JUDGMENT. «19 

Our diflercuce is political, and I 

Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
You know my great respect for you: and thil 
Makes ine regret whate'er you do amiss — 

LXIII. 

" Why, n)y dear Lucifer, would you abuse 

My call for wiinesscs ? I did not mean 
That you should halt of earili and hell produce; 

'Tis ev'n su|)erfluou.s, since two honest, clean, 
Tiue tCNtimonies are enough : we lose 

Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
'liie accusation and deiciice : if we 
Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality." 

LXIV. 

Salhan replied, "To me the matter is 

Indifterent, in a personal point of view : 
I can have fifty better souls than this 

With far less troulile than we Irove gone throogh 
Already ; and I merely argued his 

l.ale majesty of Britain's case with you 
I pon a point of form : you may dispose 
Of him; I've kings enough below, God knows !" 



Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd " multifaced" 
ily niult()scribl)ling Southey). "Then we'll call 

One or two |;crsiii.!i ol the myriads placed 
Ai^uiul our congreits, and di>pcii!se with all 

The rest,"' (|Uoih Michael: " Who may be so graced 
As t<i speak first ? there's choice enough — who shall 

It be?" Thm Satlian answcr'd, "There are many; 

I5ut you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite 
Ui>(in the instant staitcd from the throng, 

llies.N'd III a fashion now forgotti'ii ipiite; 
For all the fashions of the tlesh stick long 

liy people in the next world ; where unite 

All the costumes since Adam's right or wrong. 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost ai scanty, of dajs less remote. 



The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 

\sxnihled, and extlaini'ii, " My friends of all 

riie spheres, we shall catcli cold amongst these clouds; 
So let's to busineu: why this general call? 



4V0 -THE VISION OF JUDGMBKT' 

If those are freeholders 1 see in shrouds, 
And 'tis for an election that they haw], 
13ehold a candidate with uniurn'd coat ! 
bliiiut Peter, may 1 count upon your vote?" 

LXVIII. 

"Sir,"' replied Michael, "you mistake; these things 

Are a former life, and what vvc do 
Above is more august ; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met: so know you know." 
" Then 1 presume those gentlemen with wings," 

Said Wilkes, "are cherubs; and that soul below 
Looks much like George the Third, but to my raind 
A good deal older — Bless me! is he blind?" 



" lie is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 

" If you have aught to ariaign in him, the tomb 
Gives license to tlie humblest l)pggar's head 

To lift itself against the loftiest." — "Some," 

Said Wilkes, •' don't wait to see tliem laid in lead, 

For such a liberty — and I, for one, 

Have told them what I thought beneath the sun," 

LXX. 

" Above the sun repeat, then, what tliou liast 

To urge against him," said the Archangel." " Wkj," 

Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past. 

Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. • 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 

With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 

[ don't like ripping up old stories, since 

His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

L.\XI. 

"Foolisli, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling; 

lint then 1 l)lame the man himself much less 
Than IWite and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 

To sec him punisli'd here for their excess. 

Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 

The place below : for me, I have forgiven, 

And vote his 'habeas corpus' into heaven." 

I.XXIII. 

" Wilkes," said the devil, " I tiudcrstand all this; 

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died,>" 
And seem to think it wotilil not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 



THK VISItiN Or JUDOMKNT. 421 

Of Charon's iVrry ; you forget that his 

lleigii is C'liiclucied ! whatsoe'er hetide, 
lie widi'i l)o sovereign more : you've lost your labour, 
For at tlie hesl he will hut be your neighbour. 

LXXIIl. 

" However, I knew what to think of it, 

When I bcheid you in ymir jesting way, 
riitliiig ami whispering round aljout the spit 

\Vlu;re' Belial, ujjon duty tor ihe day, 
Willi fox's lard was bastiufi William Pitt, 

His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say 
That fidlow even in hell breeds farther ills; 
I'J have him (jayg'd — 'twas one of his own bills. 

LXXIV. 

" Call Junius I" From the crowd a shadow stalk'd. 
And at the name there was a general squeeze, 

So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
In comfort, at their own ai-rial ease. 

But were all ramin'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'd* 
As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees. 

Like wind coinpress'd ami pent within a bladder. 

Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

i.xxv. 
The shadow came — a tall, ihin, grey-hair'd figure. 

That Inok'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 
Quick in iis motions, with an air of vigour. 

But nought to mark it breeding or its birth: 
Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 

Witli now an air of gloom, or savage mirth; 
But as you gazed upon its features, they 
Changed every instant — to what, none could say. 

I.XXVI. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 

Could they distinguish whose the features were, 

The Devil himself scem'd jiuz/led even to guess; 
They varied like a dream — now here, now there 

And several people swore from out the press. 
They knew him perfectly; and one could swear 

He was his father: upon which another 

Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother: 

LXXVII. 

Another, that he was a duke, or knight. 

An orator, \ lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, k man-mi<lwife :'" but the wight 

Mysterious changed iiis countenance at leMt 



*22 THK VISION OF J ODGMENT. 

As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 

He stood, the puzzle only was increased : 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin. 



The moment that you had pronounced him one. 
Presto ! his face changed, and he was anothet { 

And when that change was hardly well put on, 

It varied, till I don't think his own mother 
If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other; 

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 

At this epistolatory " Iron Mask."'" 



For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
'' Three gentlemen at once" (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop) ; then you might deem 
That he was not even one; now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days : 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people fancies. 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.'* 

LXXX. 

I 've an hypothesis — ^,'tis quite my own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer, 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown : 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine earl 
'Tis that what Junius we are wont to call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 



I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
Are fill'd as well without the latter too: 

And really till we fix on somebody 

For certain sure to claim them as his due, 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bothei 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 



" And who and what art thou ?" the Archangel said* 
" For that you may consult my title-page," 

Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 
" If I have kept my secret half an age. 



THE VISION OP JUDGMENT. i'iS 

1 scarce shall tell it now." — " Canst thou upbraid," 

Continued Michael, "George Rex, or allege 
Aught further?" Junius answer'd, " You had better 
First ask Lim for hu answer to my letter. 



" My charges upon record will outlast 

The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 
" Kepent'st thou not," said Michael, " of some past 

Exaggeration ? something which may doom 
Thy&eif if false, as him if true ? Thou wast 

Too bitter — is it not so.' — in thy gloom 
Of passion ?"— " Passion 1 " cried the phantom dim, 

1 loved my country, and I hated him. 

LXXXIV. 

•' What I have written, I have written : let 
The rest be on his head or mine I" So spoke 

01(1 " Nominis Umbra'^ ;" and while speaking yet, 
Away he melted in celestial smoke. 

Then Sathan said to Michael, " Don't forget 

To call George Washington, and John Home Tooke, 

And Franklin ; " — but at this time there was heard 

A cry'for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 

Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 

His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 

" What 's this .'" cried Michael ; " why, 'tis not • 
ghost .'" 
" I know it," quoth the incubus ; "but he 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXVI 

" Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
My left wing, he's so heavy ; one would think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
But to the point; while hovering o'er the brink 

Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd),*" 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink. 

And stooping, cauglu this fellow at a libel — 

No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVM. 

"The former is the devil's scripture, and 

The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 

Belongs to all of u», you understand. 
I tnatch'd him up just as you see him there. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



And brought hiic oflF for sentence out of hand : 
I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 
At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 



Here Sathan said, " I know this man of old, 
And have expected him for some time here j 

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear : 

We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 

With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

•^ But since he's here, let's see what he has done." 
" Done !" cried Asmodeus, " he anticipates 

The very business you are now upon. 
And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 

Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates?" 

" Let's hear," quotb Michael, " what he has to say j 

You know we're bouod to that in every way." 

xc. 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 
By no mftans often was his case below. 

Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
His voice into that awful note of woe 

To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow; 

But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 

Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 



But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay, 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array; 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Cf all his founder'd verses under way. 
And cried, " For God's sake, stop my friend i 'twere best- 
Non Di, non homines — you know the rest."^' 



A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation ; 

The angels had of course enough of song 
When upon service ; and the generation 



THK VISION OF JUDGMENT 425 

Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long enough 

IJefdro, to profit by a new occasion ; 
The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, "What! what!** 

Pye-^ come again ? No more — no more of that !" 

XCTII. 

The tumult grew ; an universal cough 

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
When Castlereigh Has been up long enough 

•^Before he was first minister of state, 
1 mean — the slaves hear now) : some cried " Off, off ! " 

As at a farce ; till, grown quite desperate, 
The hard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
(Himself an author) only for his prose 

xciv. 
The varlet was not an ill-favonr'd knave ; 

A good deal like a vulture in the face. 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 
To hi:< whole aspect, which though rather grave, 

Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
Hut that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
Quite a poetic felony " de se." 

xcv. 

Thru Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 

With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
Ou'earh besides ; except some grumbling voice. 

Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
L'])on decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd ; 
And now the bard could plead his own bad cause. 
With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

xcvi. 

lie siiid — (I only give the heads) — he said, 

lie meant no harm in scribbling ; 'twas his way 

l|ioii all topics ; 'twas, besides, his bread. 

Of which he butter'd both sides ; 'twould delay 

Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 
And take uj) rather more time than a day, 

To name his works — he would but cite a few — 

•• Wat Tyler "— " Rhymes on Blenheim "— " Waterloo.* 

XCVII. 

lie had written praises of a regicide; 

lie had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
He had written for republics far and wide. 

And then against them bitterer than ever; 



426 THK VISION OK JUUCiMENT, 

For i>:intisiOcracy lie oiico haii cried 

Aloud, a scheme less mortal than 'twas clever; 
Then g;i-ew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
Had tnrn'd his coat — and would have tuiii'd his skiB. 



lie had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 

Reviewing-^ "the ungentle craft," aird then 
Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 

Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : 

He had written much bleak verse, and blanker prose, 

And more of both than any body knows. 



He had written Wesley's life : — here turning round 
To Sathan, " Sir, I'm ready to write yours, 

In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, 

With notes and preface, all that most allures 

The pious purchaser ; and there's no ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : 

So let me have the proper documents, 

That I may add you to my other saints." 

c. 

Sathan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you, 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My oft'er, what says Michael ? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work : not so new 

As it was once, but 1 would make you shine 
Like your own tumpet. I5y the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 



' But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision ! 

Now you. shall judge, all people; yes, you shall 
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
I settle all these things by intuition, 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell and all. 
Like king Alfonzo.s* When I thus see double, 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 

cii. 
He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no 

Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 
Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 

Hft 'Pad the first three lines of the contents; 



TIIK VISION OF JU0GMEN1V 427 

But at (he fourili, the wliolc s])iritual show 

Mad vauish'd with variety of scents, 
Ambrosial and Milphiiieous, as they sprang, 
Like lightning, ulf (loni Itis " melodious twang."-" 

cm. 

Those grand heroics acted as a spell ; 

The angels stopp'd tlicir ears and plied their pinions; 
Tlie devils ran howling, di-afeii'd, down to hell; 

The ghosts fled, gihiiering, for their own dominions — 
(Tor 'tis not yet decided *hcre ihey dwell, 

And I leave every man to his opinions); 
Michael took rel'uge in his trump — liut, jol 
liis teeth were set on edge, he could not blow! 

CIV. 

Saint Peter who has hitherto l)een known 
For an inipciunus saint, upraised his keys, 

And at the lifth hne knock'd the poet down, 
Who fell like ['liat'iou, hut more at ease, 

Into his lake, (or there he did not drown ; 
A different wch hcii;g hy liie Destinies 

Woven for the Laiir(ai's filial wreath, whene'er 



cvi. 

As for the rcit, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dream, the Iclcseopc is gone 

Which kejjt my optics (ree from ail delusion, 
And show'd mo what I in my turn have shown; 

All I saw furl her, in the last cmfusion, 

Was, that King George slii)i)'d into heaven for one; 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 

I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 



Reform shall happen either here or there. h 

cv. H 

lie first sunk to the hottom — like his works, |j 

But soon rose to the surf:ice — like himself; |j 

For all corrupted things aic hnoy'tl like corks,^^ || 

By their own rottenness, light as an elf, ji 

Or wisp that Hits o'er a morass: he lurks, 'j 

It may he. still, like dull hooks on a shelf, \\ 

In his own den. to scrawl siune " Life " or " Vision, jj 

.\s Well)orn says — " the devil turn'd precisian." jl 



r 






OCCASIONAL PIECES. 




FAREWELL I IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. 




Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal avail'd on highy 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farew6ll ! 




These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast and in my brain 
Awake the pangs that pass not by. 

The tliought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel : 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell 1 — Farewell I 




BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. 




Bright be the place of thy soul 1 
No lovelier spirit *' »n thine 

E'er burst from its mortal control, 
In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 




On earth thou wert all but divine, 
As thy soul shall immortally be; 

And our sorrow may cease to repine. 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 




Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emerald be: 
There should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 




Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of tliy rest : 


\ 


But nor cypress nor yew let us see; 

For why should we mourn for the blest? 



UCCASIUNAL flKCRS). 489 

WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and coldt 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow— ) 

It felt like the warning j 

Of what I feel now. ^ | 

Thy vows are all broken, ^ j 

And light is thy fame ; J 

I hear thy name spoken, i 

And share in its shame. | 

They name thee before me, j 

A knell to mine ear 

A shudder comes o'er me — i 

Why wert thou so dear •; | 

They know not I knew thee. j 

Who knew thee too wcii .— | 

Long, long shall I rue thee, | 

Too deeply to tell. | 

In secret we met — 1 

In silence I grieve, j 

That thy heart could forget, ] 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee , 

After long years, 
How should 1 greet thee I — 

With silence and tears. i 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

Fkw years have pass'd since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, at least in name, 

And childhood's gay sincerity 

Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know'st 
What trifles oft the heart recall ; 

And those who once have loved the mott 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 



430 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

And such the change the heart displays, 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
Will view thy mind estranged again. 

If so, it never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
Which made thee fickle as thou art. 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide. 
So human feelings ebb and flow; 

And who would in a breast confide, 
Where stormy passions ever glow ? 

It boots not that, together bred, 
Our childish days were days of joy : 

My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 

And when we bid adieu tu youth. 

Slaves to the specious world's control, 

We sigh a long farewell to truth; 
That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 

When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in Man's maturer years, 
When Man himself is but a tool 

When interest sways our hopes and fear», 
And all must love and hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same. 
We learn at length our faults to blend; 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we then 'scape from folly free 

Can we reverse the general plan, 
Nor be what all in turn must be ? 

No; for myself, so dark my fate 

Through eveiy turn of life hath been; 

Man and the world I so much hate, 
1 care not when 1 quit the scene. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away 

As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
But dare not stand the test of day 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 431 

Alul whenever folly calls 

Where parasites and princes meet, 
(For cherisU'd first in royal halls, 

The welcome vices kindly greet,) 

Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add 

One insect to the fluttering crowd 
And still thy trilling heart is glad 

To join tho vain, and court the proud. 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair. 

Still simpering on "vith eager haste, 
As flies along the gay parterre, 

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste 

But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
Which seems, as marshy vapours move, 

To flit along from dame to dame. 
An ignis-faluus gleam of love ? 

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, 

Will deign to own a kindred care ? 
Who will debase his manly mind, 

For friendship every fuol may share ? 

In time forbear; amidst the throng 

No more so base a thing be seen ; 
No more so idly pass along; 

Be something, any thing, but — mean. 



LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM 
A SKULL." 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled 

In me behold the only skull, 
Fnim wbicli, unlike a living head 

Wliati vcr flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quafTd, like thee: 

1 died : let earth my bones resign : 
Pill up — thou canst not injure me ; 

The worm haili fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape, 
Than nurse the cnrth-worm's slimy brood; 

And circle in tho goblet's shape 

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 

Whcrf once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In iiiil iif others' lit nic shine: 
And when, alas! our brains are gone, 

Wlmt nnhlcr suhstitutf than wine? 



Ij *->- OCCASIONAL PiKCBS. 

ji Qiuiff vvliile thou canst : another race, 

ji When thou and thine, like me, are sped. 

May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 

Why not — since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce/ 

Rcdeem'd from worms and wasting clay,, 
This chance is theirs, to be of use. 



WELL! TKOU ART HAPPY.- 

W«LL I thou art happy, and I feel 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For gtill my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do, 

Thy husbands's blest — and 'twill impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot 

But let them pass — Oh ! how ray heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee no5 

When late I saw thy favourite child. 

I thought my jealous heart would brfce^ 
But when tke unconscious infant smiled, 

I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 

I kiss'd it, — and repress'd my sigh*. 

Its father in its face to see; 
But then it had its mother's eves. 

And they were aii to love ana mo. 

Mary, adieu-! I must away : 

While thou art hlest I'll not repine ; 

But near thee I can never stay; 

My heart would soon again be thine. 

I deem'd that time, I deera'd that pride 
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame i 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 

My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. 

Yet was I calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face. 

Yet meet with tio confusion there • 

One only feeliiig could'st thou trace? 
The sullen oalmnes.-! of despair. 



OCCASIONAL riliCKS. 433 



Away! awayl my early dream 
Ucmembraiice never must awake: 

Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? 
My foolish heart, be still, or break. 



INSCKIPTION UN THE MONUMENT OF A NEW- 
FOUNDLANU DOG. 

Whkn some proud son of man returns to earth, 

Unknown to glory, but upheld l)y birth, 

Tiie scitlptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 

And storied urns record who rests below; 

Wiien all is done, upon the tomb is seen. 

Not what he was, but what he should have been 

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 

The first to wt-lcome, foremost to difend. 

Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 

Wiio labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 

Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 

Wiiile man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven. 

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 

Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour. 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 

NVho knows thee well must quit tiiee with disgust, 

Degraded mass of animated dust! 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypociisy, thy words deceit! 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 

Kach kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 

I'ass on — it honours none you wish to mourn: 

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; 

I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 



THE FAREWELL. 

TO A LADY. 

When Man, cxpell'd from Eden's bowers, 
A moment linger'd near tlie gate. 

Each scene recall'd the vanij-h'd liours. 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes, 
lie learnt to bear his load of grief; 

Just gave a Sigh to other times, 
And found in busier scenes relief. 



^^.l 



434 occAsIo^AL piisces. 

Thus, lady! will it be with me, 

And I must view thy charms no mora$ 

For, whilst I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all 1 knew before. 

In flight I shall l)e surely wise, 
Escaping from temptation's snare ; 

I cannot view my Paradise 
Without a wish of dwelling there. 



A LOVE SONG. 

Remind me not, remind me not. 

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, 
When all my soul was given to thee ; 
Hours that may never be fo)-got 
Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
And thou and 1 shall cease to be. 
Can I forget ? canst thou forget ? 
When [ilaying with thy golden hair, 

llow quick tiiy fluttering heart did move} 
Oh ! by my soul, 1 see thee yet. 

With eyes so languid, breast so fair. 
And lips, though silent, breathing love. 

When thus reclining on ray breast. 

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproach'd yet raised desire, 
And still we near and nearer prest, 

And still our glowing lips would meet. 
As if in kisses to expire. 
And then those pensive eyes would close, 
And bid their lids eiich other seek, 
Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
While their long lashes' darkne'd gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow. 
I dreamt last night our love return'd, 
And, sooth to say, thut every dream 
Was sweeter in its phantasy, 
Than if for other hearts 1 burn'd, 

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not, 

Of hours which, though for ever gone. 
Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
Till thou and I shall he fuigot, 

And senseless as the mouldering stone 
Which tells that \\e shall be no more. 



OCCASIONAL IMliCKS. 43j 

THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. 

TiiKRE was a time, I need not name, 

Since it will ne'er forgotten be, 
Wlien all our feelings were the same 

As still my soul hath been to thee. 

Antl from that hour when first thy tongue 
Coufess'd a love which equall'd mine, 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung. 
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine : 

None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
To think how all that love bath flown ; 

Transient as every faithless kiss. 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew, 

When late 1 heard thy lips declare, 
In accents once imagined true, 

Remembrance of the days th t were. 

Yes ! my adored, yet most unkind ! 

Though thou wilt never love again, 
To me, 'tis doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me, 

Nor longer shall my soul repine, 
Wliate'er thou art or e'er shalt be, 

Tliou hast been dearly, solely mine. 



AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? 

And wilt thou weep when I am low? 

Sweet lady 1 speak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes arc gone, 

My blood runs coldly through my breast; 

And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, nielhinks, a gleam of peace 

Do'th ihrough my cloud of anguish shine; 

And for awhile my sorrows scase, 
To know tiiy heart hath felt for mine- 



436 OCCASIONAL PIECBS. 

Oh lady ! blessed be that tear — 
It falls for one who cannot weep : 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine ; 

But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 

A SONO. 

Fill the goblet again ? for I never before 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core ; 

Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since, through life' 

varied round, 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 

I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 

I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can declare, 

That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had frieiMs ! — who has not ? — but what tongue will avow, 
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou ? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange. 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst 

change : 
Thou grow'st old — who does not ? — but on earth what 

appears. 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 
We are jealous ! — who's not ? — thou hast no such alloy; 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
There we find — do we not ? — in the flow of the soul, 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 



OCCASIONAL VmCKS. 43? 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
And Misery's triumph coiuiuenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left, — was slle not ? — but the goblet we kiss, 
And care not for Hope, who are certaiu of bliss. 

Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown, 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: 
Wc must die — who shall not ? — May our sins be forgivea 
And Hebe shall never be id^e in heaven. 



STANZAS TO A LADY ON LEAVING ENGLAND 

'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high t!ie fresh'ning blast ; 
And I must from this land begone. 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blert— 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
And 1 have striven, but in vain. 
Never to think of it again ; 
For though 1 fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate. 

My weary heart is desolate ; 

I look around, and cannot trace * 

One friendly smile or welcome face, 

And ev'n in crowds am still alone. 

Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam, 
And I will seek a foreign home ; 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting-place 
Hy own dark thoughts I cannot sb* 
I jt ever love, and love but one. 

■' e poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
ydll finds some hospitable hearth 



438 OCCASIONAL PlliCiiS. 

Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in woe; 
But friend or lover I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee, 
There's not an eye will weep for me • 
There's not a kind congenial heart, 
Where I can claim the meanest part ; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene. 

Of what we are, and what we've been. 

Would whelm some softer heaits with woe— • 

But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 

Yet still beats on as it begun. 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one may be 
Is not for vulgur eyes to see, 
And why that early love was crost. 
Thou kncw'st the best, I feel the most.; 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I've tried another's fetters too. 
With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
And I would fain have loved as well, 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view 
And bless thee in my lost adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep 
Though wheresoe'er my bark may run, 
I love but thee, I love but one. 



TO FLORENCE. 



Oh Lady ! when I left the shore. 

The distant shore which gave me birth, 

1 harcily thought to grieve once more, 
To quit another spot of earth 

Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 

When panting Nature droops the head, 

Who only thou art scpu to smile, 
I view my parting hour with dread. 



UCCARIONAL PIECKS. AHyf 

Tlioujrli far from Albin's craggy shore, 

hivideil liy ihe dark blue main; 
A Tew l)ricf rolling seasons o'er, 

Pcrdiance I view her cliffs again : 

But whcresoe'er I now may roam, 
Through scorching clime, and varied sea. 

Though Time restore me to my home, 
1 ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee t 

On thee, in whom at once conspire 
All charms which heedless hearts can move, 

Whom hut to see is to admire, 

And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 

\Vith such a word can more offend; 
And since thy heart I cannot share, , 

Believe me, what I am, thy friend 

And who so coTd as look on thee, 

Thou lovely wand'rer, and be Jess ? 
Nor he, what man should ever be. 

The friend of Beauty in distress ? 

A). ■ who would think that form had past 
Tnrough Danger's most destructive path, 

Had braved tiie death-wing'd tempest's blast, 
And 'soaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? 

Lady ! when I shall view the walls 

Wher free IJyzantium once arose, 
And Stamhoul's Oriental halls 

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 

Though mightiest in the lists of fame, 

That glorious city still shall be; 
' n me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 

As spot of thy nativity : 

And though I ])id thee jmw farewell, 
\\ hen I bchuld thai wondrous scene, 
nee wheie thou art 1 may not dwell, 
*Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been 



STANZAS 

coMi'dsRn ntTniNf; a Tnt:\i)Kr. storm/: 

Chili, and mirk is the nightly blast, 
AVI'iro Piiidus" iiioiint;iins risf, 

And auirry clouds are pouring fast 
The veriiieniiiT of the skies. 



-4<0 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 

And lightnings, as they play 
But show where rocks our path have crott. 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 

When lightning hroke the gloom — 
How welcome were its shade! — ah, no I 

'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 

rough sonnds of foaming waterfalls, 
I hear a voice exalaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who call* 
Ou distant England's name. 

A shot is f red — by foe or friend ? 

Another— 'tis to tell 
The moun'.ain-peasants to descend, 

And le.,i(l us where they dwell. 

/^ 
Oh! w!i'?. in such a night will dare 

To tr.M])t the wilderness ? 
And ni' *' 'mid thunder peals can hear 

Cui signal of distress ? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad. 

Clouds hurst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour I 
More fiercely pours the storm ! 

Yet here one thought has still the power 
To keep my bosom warm. 

While wand'ring througli each broken path. 
O'er brake and craggy brow ; 

Wliilc elements exhaust tlicir wrath. 
Sweet Florence, where art thou.* 

Not on the sea, not on the sea, 
Thy bark hath long been gone : 

Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 
Bow detvn my head alone ! 

.Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I press'd tby lip; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 
Intpell'd thy gallant ship. 



OCCASIONAL IMECBS. 

Now art thou safe ; nay, long ere now 
Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 

'Twerc liard if aught so fair as thou 
Should linger on the main. 

Anrt since I now remember thee 

111 darkness and in dread, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 

Do thou, amidst the fair white walls, 

If Cadiz yet be free, 
At times from out her latticed halls 

Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 

Then think uiwn Calypso's isles, 

Endear' d by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles, 

To me a single sigh. 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A lialf-lorni'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace, 

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st of one, 

Who ever tliinks on thee. 

Ihough smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sevcr'd hearts repine, 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main. 

Ami! mourns in search of thine. 



441 



STANZAS 

WBITTUN IN TASSINO TUK 4MURACIAN GUI.F, NOV 14, 1309, 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast; 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen. 
The ancient word was won at last. 

And now upon the scene I look. 
The azure grave of many a Roman I 

Where stem Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman, 



i42 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Florence 1 whom I will love as well 
As ever yet was said or sung, 

(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) 
Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 

Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, 
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
Thy charms might raised new Antonies. 

Though Fate forbids such things to be 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd I 

I cannot lose a world for thee, 
But would not lose thee for a world. 



THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN I 

WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JA' ' AY 16, 1810. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever: 
We madly smile when we should groan ; 

Delirium is our best deceiver. 

Each lucid interval of thought 

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 
' And he that acts as wise men ought. 

But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO 
ABYDOS, MAY, 9, 1810. 

If, in the month of dark December, 

Leander, who was slightly wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember ?) 

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! 

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd. 

He sped to Hero, nothing loth, 
And thus of old thy current pour'd. 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both I 

For me, degenerate modern wretch. 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. 
And think I've done a feat to-day. 



OCCASIUNAL PIECES. 443 

But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 

According to the rioubtfiii story, 
To woo, — ami — Lord knows what ))eside. 

And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 

'Twcre hard to say who fared the best : 

Sail niortals 1 thus the Gods still plague you I 

Up lost his labour, I my jest; 

For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT 
ORCIIOMENUS. 

IN THIS DOOK A TUAVELLEtt HAD WRITTK.N : 

" Fair All)ion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nursery of art: 
Noble his oiyect, glorious is his aim ; 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 

IIKNKATII WHICH LORD BVRO.N INsEKTED TUB FOLLOWING:— 

The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
Khymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
I5ut yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, 
His name would bring more credit than his verse. 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give me back my heart! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Ficep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Z(oi} fiov, ods dyaTTuJ. 

IJy those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'il by each vEgeaii wind; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft checks' blooming tinge; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zdi;/ /ioi', <rds dyoTTiU. 

By that lip I long to taste; 
By that 7.one- encircled waiatt 



Hi OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well I 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zu)r] (lov, aas oyaTroJ. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet 1 when alone. 
Though I ny to Istambol. 
Athens holds iny heart and soul; 
Can I cease to love thee ? No I 
Ztijj jjiov, eras dyaww. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 

Dear object of defeated care ! 

Though now of Love and thee bereft, 
To reconcile me with despair, 

Thine Image and my tears are left. 

'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true : 
For by the death-blow of my Hope 

My Memory immortal grew. 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR 

SONG, 

" A6VT6 iratSes ruiv 'EXX^vwr."* 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour's gone forth. 
And, worthy of such ties. 

Display who gave us birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
111 a river pa&t our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke 
Let your country see you rising, 

And all her cliains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sagea, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages. 

Oh, start again to life I 



UCCASIOMAL I'IKCES. 44^ 

At till- sniiiul of nty trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oli. join with ine! 
Anil ilie seven-hill* cily seeking, 

Fight, conquer, till we're free. 

Sons of Greeks, Ac* 

Sparta, Sparta why in slumbers 

Lr hargic dost thou lie 
Awnkf, iiiiil join thy num))ers 

Willi Athens, old ally 
Leonidas ri'Callinj:, 

Thai chut' of ancient song. 
Who saved ye oiicc from falling, 

The lerrildc'l the strong ! 
Who made ihat bold diversion 

In old rh(.'rmopyla;. 
And warring «ith the Persian 

To keep his country free; 
With his three huiulred waging 

The hattle, lotig he stood, 
And like a lion raging. 

Expired in seas of hlood, 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG 

" MTreroi /i€s Vtr' iriptfioXi 
'QpaiOTart] \aii£>)," &C.' 

I ENTKR thy garden of roses, 

Beloved and fair II(ii(roe, 
Each morning where Flora reposes. 

For surely I see her in thee, 
Oh. Lovely ! thus low I implore thee. 

Receive this fond truth from my tongiiC, 
Which utieis its song to adore thee. 

Yet trcmlilcs for what it has sung; 
As the hraiich, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, through her every fealare. 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden giows hateful 

Wlicn Love has abandon' d ihe bowers; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 

That herb is more frag'Bnt than (lowers. 
The poisoii when pom rt from the chalice, 

Will decjily emt-ittrr the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy roalice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 



iii\ OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 
My heart from these horrors to save: 

Will nought to my bosom restore thee? 
Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced throus;h my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must 1 perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cheritb« 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses, 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all wither'd reposes. 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



ON PARTING. 



The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left 

Shall never part from mine. 
Till happier liours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing wlien alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast. 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak: 
Oh ! what can idle words avail, 

Unless the heart could speak ? 

By day or night, in weal or woe, 

That heart no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show, 

And silent, ache for thee. 



FAREWELL TO MALTA. 

Adieu, ye joys of La Valette ! 
Adieu, sirojco, f,tin. and sweat I 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 447 

Adieu, thou palace rarely entei^d I 

Adieu, ye mansions where — I've ventured! 

Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 

(How surely he who mounts you swears I) 

Adieu, ye merchants often failing I 

Adieu, thou mob for ever railing! 

Adieu, ye packets — without letters! 

Adieu, ye fools — who ape your betters 1 

Adieu, thou daroned'st quarantine, 

That gave rae fever, and the spleen ! 

Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, 

Adieu his Excellency's dancers I 

Adieu to Peter — whom no fault's in, 

But could not teach a colonel waltzing; 

Adieu, ye females fraught with graces! 

Adieu red coats, and redder faces! 

Adieu the supercilious air 

Of all that strut " en militaire !" 

I go — but God knows when, or why, 

To smoky towns and cloudy sky. 

To things (the honest truth to say) 

As bad — but in a different way. 

Farewell to these, but not adieu, 
Triumphant sons of truest blue ! 
While either Adriatic shore, 
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more 
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, 
Proclaim you war and women's winners. 
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is. 
And take my rhyme — because 'tis " gratis.* 

And now I've got to Mrs. Frascr, 
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her^ 
And were I vain enough to think 
My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
A line — or two — were no hard matter, 
As here, indeed, I need not flatter: 
But she must be content to shine 
In better praises than in mine. 
With lively air, and open heart. 
And fashion's ease, without its art ; 
Her hours can gaily glide along. 
Nor ask the aid of idle song. 

And now, Malta ! since thou'st got us. 
Thou little military hothousci 
I'll not offt-nd with words, uncivil, 
And wish thee rudely at the Devil, 
But only stare from out my easement. 
And ask, for what is such a place meant? 



448 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Then, in my solitary nook, 
Return to scribbling, or a book, 
Or take my physic while I'm able 
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label). 
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, 
Andi)le8s the gods — I've got a fever 1 



TO THYRZA. 



Without a stone to mark the spot, 

And say, what Truth might well have said» 

By all, save one, perchance forgot. 
Ah 1 wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 

By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past the future fled to tbee, 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 

Could this have been — a word, a look, 
That softly said, " We part in peace," 

Had taught my bosom how to brook. 
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 

And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
Prepared a light and pangless dart. 

Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see. 
Who held and holds thee in his heart ? 

Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here? 

Or sadly niark'd thy glazing eye, 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh. 

Till all was past ! But when no more 
'Twas thine to reck of human woe. 

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er. 
Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. 

Shall they not flow, when many a day 
In these, to me, deserted towers. 

Ere call'd but for a time away. 

Affection's mingling tears were ours .' 

Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else migiit understand; 
The whisi)er'd tljought of hearts allied. 

The pressure of the thrilling hand; 



OCCASIONAL PIECB8. 449 

The kiss so guiltless and refined, 

That Love each warmer wish forbore: 

Those eyes proclaini'd so pure a mind, 
Ev'n passion hlush'd to plead' for more. 

The tone that taught me to rejoice, 

When prone, unliice thee, to repine; 
The song celestial from thy voice. 

But sweet to me from none but thine ; 

The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 

But where is thine ? — Ah ! where art tho 

Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 
But never bent beneath till novr I 

M'ell hast thou left in life's best bloom 

The cup of woe for me to drain. 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again ; 

But if in worlds more blest than this 

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 
Impart some portion of thy bliss, 

To wean me from mine anguish here. 

Teach me — too early taught by theel 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
On earth thy love was such to me ; 

It fain would form my hope in beaten ! 



AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OP WOE. 

Away, away, ye notes of woe 1 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain. 
Or I must flee from hence — for, oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
I must not think, I may not gaze, 

On what I am — on what i was. 

Tlie voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is bush'd and all their charms are fled ; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! 
Yes, Thyrza ! yes, thf-y breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust! since dust thou art ; 
And ail that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart I 



«nO OCCASIONAl, PJECeS. 

'Tis silent all — Imt on my ear 

Tiie well-reiriembcr'd echoes tliiili ; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice tliat iittw might well be still: 
Yet olt my doubting sou! 'twill shake ; 

Ev'n slumber owns its gentle tone, 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 

Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep. 

Thou art but now a lovely a lovely dream j 
A. star that trembled o'er the deep. 

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
But lie who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 
Will long lament the vanish'd ray 

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 



ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE. 

One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain; 
One last long sigh to love and thee, 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before : 
Though every joy is fled below, 

What future grief can touch me more ? 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring 

Man was not form'd to live alone : 
I'll be that light, unmeaning thing, 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more dear. 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 

Thou'rt nothing, — all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear, 
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill : 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It soothed to gaze upon the sky; 
For then I deeni'd the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 



OCCASIONAL I>IICCS. 451 

Am! oft I tliouglil at CyntSiia's noon, 

W lien sailing o'er the Jv^ean wave, 
" Now Tliyrza gazes on ttwii moon — " 

Alas, it giflain'tl upon lii-r grave ! 

When strctcli'il on fevor's sleepless bed, 

And sickness shrunk my thr(>l)hing vein8« 
" 'Tis coinfori still,"' I liiinily said, 

" That Tlur/.a cannot know my pains:" 
Like freedom to ilio time-worn slave 

A boon 'lis idle then ogive, 
Ri;leiitiiij; Satire vainly gave 

My lite, when 'I'hyrza ceas'^l to live! 

My Thyrza's pledge in helier (la>s, 

Wlien love and life alike were new! 
IIow different now thou mrct'st my gaze! 

How tinned hy time with sorrow's hue I 
The heart that gave itself with thee 

Is silent — ah. were mine as still! 
Though cidd as e'en the dead can be, 

It feels, ii sickens with the chill. 

Thou hitter pledge ! thou tnonrnful token! 

Though painful, weleonie to my hreast ! 
Still, still preserve thai love niilnoketi, 

Or I'reak the heart i.<. \\hi';li iliou'rt press'dl 
Time tempers love, hut not removes, 

More hallow'd when its hope is lied: 
Oh! what are thousand living loves 

To that which cannot (juit the dead? 



EUTHANASIA. 
WiiKN Time, or soon or hue. sh.dl bring 

The dreainless slettp thai lulls the dead. 
Oblivion! may thy languid "ing 

V\'ave gently n'er my thing bed! 

No band of friends or heirs be there, 
To weep or vish the coming blow : 

No maiden, with dishcvell'd hair, 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 

l?ut silent let mesinlv to earth, 
With iio (itlicions mourners near: 

I woidd not mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an liour. 
Could nobly check its useless sighi, 

Might then exert its latest ])0wer 
In her who lives uud biiii who die*. 



Ib'i OCCASIONAL PIBCE«. 

'7 rtrc sweet, my Psyclie ! to the last 
Thy features stiil serene to see : 

Forgetful of its struggles past, 

E'en Pain itself should stnile on thee. 

But vain the wish — for Beauty still 

Will shrink, as shrinks the ehbing breathi 

And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death, 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 
Without regret, without a groan ; 

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

" Ay, but to die, and go," alas 1 
Where all have gone, and all must go! 

To be the nothing that I was, 
Ere born to life and living woe ! 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'Tis something better not to be. 



AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AS FAIR. 
Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis vcrsari quam tui meminisge t" 

And thou art dead, as young and fair. 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return'd to Earth! 
Though Earth received them in her bed. 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low. 

Nor gaze upon the spot; 
Tliere flowf rs or weeds at will may grow, 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
Ti)£t. wliat I loved, and long must love 

Like coinriion cartli can rot ; 
To ine ther(! needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis Noiliing ihal 1 loved so well. 

Yei did 1 iove thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didsl not change through all the pasf, 

And canst not alter now. 



OCCASIOSAI. i'lKCKH. 453 

The lovo, where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou canst not aee 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowertt 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much lo weep ; 

Nor need 1 to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away ; 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd lilooin unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 

The leaves must drop away : 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf l>y leaf. 

Than see it plucli'd to-day; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a dce])er shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd. 
And thou v/crt lovely to the last; 

Extinguish'd, not dccavM ; 
As stars that shoot along tlic sky 
Shine brightest as they full from higlw 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 

My tears might well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on iliy face, ' 

To fold thee in a faint embrace, | 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And s-how that love, however vain, 
Nor ihou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left ine free, 
The loveliest things that still remaio, 

Thao thus remember thcc I 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

The ail of thine that cannot die 
Though dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 



IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUiNTS OF MEN. 

Ir sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade. 
The lonely hour presents again 

"The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore, 
And sorrow unobserved niuy pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 

I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile, 

Unfaithful to thy memory ; 
Nor deem that memory less dear, 

That then I seem not to repine ; 
I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

If not the goblet pass unquaffd, 

It is not drain' d to banish carc ; 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught, 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set ray soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowi 

That drown'd a single thought of thee 

For wert thou vanish'd from ray mind. 

Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
And who would then remain behind 

To honour thine abandon'd Urn ? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pndc 

That last dear duty to fulfil 
Though all the world forget beside, 

'Tis meet that I remember still. 

For well I know, that such had been 
Thy gentle care of him, who now 

Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 
Where none regarded him, but thoni 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 465 

And, oh ! I feci in that was (^ivea 

A blessing never meant for aie; 
Thou wcrt too like a dream of iieaven, 

l'"or earthly Love to merit thee. 



ON ACOUNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN. 

Ill-katkd Heart! and can it be, 

'I hat thou shuuidst thus be rent in twain? 

Have years of care for thine and thee 
Alike been all eniploy'd in vain? 

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 

And every fragment dearer grown, 
Since he who wears thee feels thou art 

A fitter emblem of his own. 



LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.* 

Wekp, daughter of a royal line, 
A Sire's disgrace, a reahn's decay; 

Ah ! happy if eacli tear of thine 
Could wash a fatUer's fault away I 

Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears- 
Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 

And be each drop in future years 
liapaid thee by thy people's smiles! 



THE CHAIN I GAVE. 

FROM THE TUHKISH. 

Thk chain 1 gave was fair to view, 

Tiie hue I addeii sweet in sound; 
The heart that offer'd both was true. 

And ill deserved the fate it tound. 
« 
'i 'icse gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 

Thy iriiih in abicnee to divine; 
And they have dune their duly well, — 

Alas! they could not teach thee thine. 

Tliat cliain wa5 firm in cveiy link, 
Hill iiol III hear a stranger's touch, 

That hue was >wpci — till thou couldst thiak 
III oilier liaiids Its notei were such. 






455 OCCASIONAL I'IKCES. 

Lit liiiii, who from ihy neck unbound 
Tlie chain wliich bhivci'c! in his grasp, 

VVJio &a\v ihat, luti; refuse to sound, 
Resiling the clioids, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too 
The chain is hroke, the music mute. 

'Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ, 

Absent or present, still to thee. 

My friend, what magic spells belong 1 

As all can tell, who share, like me, 
In turn tby converse, and thy song. 

But when the dreaded hour shall come 
Ey Friendship ever dcera'd too nigh, 

And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 
Shall weep that aught of thee can die. 

How fondly will she then repay 
Thy homage ofl'er'd at her shrine, 

And blend, while ages roll away. 
Her name immortally with thine 1 



ADDRESS, 



SPOKKN AT THK UPENING OF DKUUV-LAN K I II l) ATRE, S4 tt RD ir. 
OCTOBEK 10, 1SJ2^ 

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower ol pride; 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld, (oh ! sigh admhcd and mourn'd, 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin il wdoru'd !) 
Through clouds of fire the niiissy fragments riven; 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night fiom iieaven; 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er tl.'e startled Thames,'" 
While thousands, throng'd aiounri tlie Ijurning dome 
Shrank back appall'd, and ireiiibled i'ur their home, 
As glared the voUiined blaze, unii ghas ly slione 
Tiie skies, with lightnings r.wful as theii ovmi. 



OCCASIONAL PIKCRft. 157 

Till lilackcning ashes and the lonely wall 
Ubuip'd tlie Muse's realm, and niark'd her fall; 
Say — shall iliis new, nor less aspiring i)ile, 
Uear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
Know the same favour wliicli the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him'and you? 

Yes— it shall be — the magic of that name 
Delies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
And l)ids the Drama be where she hath been: 
This fiiiiric's i)irth attests the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say, IIow well! 

As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past, 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may hoast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'crwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tear retiring Roscins drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu. 
But still for living wit tne wreaths may hloom, 
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own Mciiaiidcr's head! 
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead 1 

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
Kre Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, 
Viiiu of our ancestry as they of theirs ; 
\\'i)ilc thus Uctneiiiljrance borrows lianquo's glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line. 
Pause — e'er their feebler offspring you condemn, 
Kellect how hard the task to rival them ! 

Friends or the stage ! to whom both Players and Plays 
.Must sue alike (or pardon or for praise. 
Whose judging voice and eyi- alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish or riject; 
If e'er Irivolity has led to fame. 
And made us blush tliat you forbore to blame; 
If e'er ihe sinking stage could condescend 
To soothe the si(;kly taste it dared not mend, 
All i)ast reproach may present scenes refute. 
And ccusure, wisely loud, be justly mutel 



458 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

oil ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; 
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
4nd reason's voice be echo'd back by ours! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid, 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old I 
Britons our judges. Nature for our guide, 
Still may we please — long, long may you preside 1 



REMEMBER THEE 1 REMEMBER THEE I" 

Remember thee ! remember thee I 

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream 

Remorse and shame shall cling to thee. 
And haunt thee like a feverish dream 1 

Remember thee ! Ay, doubt it not, 
Thy husband too shall think of thee : 

By neither shalt thou be forgot, 

Thou/a&e to him, thou^cTwi to me I 



TO TIME. 



Time 1 on whose arbitrary wing 
The varying hours must flag or fly, 

Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring 
But drag or drive us on to die — 

Hail thoul who on my birth bestow'd 
Those boons to all that know thee known; 

Yet better 1 sustain thy load, 
For now I bear the weight alone. 

L would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given ; 

And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 

To them be joy or rest, on me 
Thy future ills shall press in vain : 

I nothing owe but years lo thee, 
A debt already paid in pain. 



OCCASIONAL I'iKCKS. 

Yet ev'n thai pain was some relief; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power: 
The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 

In joy I've sigli'd to think thy flight 

Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 

Thy cloud could overcast the light, 
But could no add a night to woe ; 

For then, however drear and dark. 
My soul was suited to thy sky ; 

One star alone shot forth a spark 
To prove thee — not Eternity. 

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
A blank ; a thing to count and curse, 

Through each dull tedious trilling part, 
Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 

One scene ev'n thou canst not deform ; 

The limit ot thy sloth or speed, 
When future wanderers bear the sloi ni 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 

And I can smile to think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 

When all the vengeance thou canst wrealc 
Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. 

Ah ! Love was never yet without 
The pang, tlie agony, the doubt, 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
While day and night roll dM.rkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my woe, 
I faint, I die bcneah the blow. 
That l.ovc had arrows well I knew ; 
Alas! I find them poison'd too. 

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
Wliich Love around your haunts hath set; 
Or, circled by his fatal fire, 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 

A bird of free and careless wing 
Was !, through many a smiling spring • 
But caught within the subtle snare, 
1 burn, and feebly flutter there. 



460 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vairij 
Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
The cold repulse, the look askance, 
The lightning of Love's angry glance. 

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mihe ; 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and thy power. 

My light of life ! ah, tell me why 

That pouting lip, and alter'd eye ? 

My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow; 
M'hat wretch with me would barter woe? 
My bird ! relent : one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live. 

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, 
In silent anguish I sustain ; 
And still thy heart, without partaking 
One pang, exulis — while mine is breaking. 

Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
Thou canst not murder more than now: 
I've lived to curse my natal day. 
And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest ? 
Alas! too late, I dearly know 
That joy is harbinger of woe. 



THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 

To those thyself so fondly sought ; 
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 

Are doubly bitter from that thought : 
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 
Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 

The wholly false the heart despises, 

And spurns deceiver and deceit. 
But she who not a thought disguises, 

Whose love is as sincere as sweet,-— 
When she can change who loved so tnily, 
Tt feels what mine has felt so newly. 



OCCASIONAL I'lKCItS. 461 

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow, 

Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 
And if, when conscious on the morrow 

We scarce our fancy can forgive, 
That cheated us in slumber only. 
To leave the waking soul more lonely. 

What must they feel whom no false vision, 
• But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? 
Sincere, but swift in sad transition ; 
As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 
Ah 1 sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 
And all thy chahge can be but dreaming ! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE " ORIGIN 
OF LOVE." 

The " Origin of Love !" — Ah, why 

That cruel question ask of me, 
When thou may'st read in many an eye 
He starts to life on seeing thee? 

And shouldst thou seek his end to know : 
My heart forebodes, my feajs foresee, 

He'll linger long rn silent woe ; 
But live — until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER. 

Remembkr him, whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved: 
Remember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 

That yielding breast, that melting eye. 

Too much invited to be bless'd: 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 

The wilder wish reproved, repress'd. 

Oh '. let me feel that all I lost 

But saved thee all that conscience fears; 

And blush for every pang it cost 
To spare the vain remorse of years. 

Yet think of tliis, when many a tongue, 
Whoii' l)usy accents whisper blame. 

Would do (lie heart that loved thee wrong, 
Ac:l brand a nearly blighted name. 



462 OCCASIONAI, PIKCHS. 

Tliink that, wliate'er to others, thou 

Hast seen each selfish thought suhdued: 

[ bless thy purer soul ev'n now, 
Ev'n now, in midnight solitude. 

Oh, God! that we had met in time, 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free* 

When thou hadst loved without a crime, 
And I been less unworthy thee ! 

Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
From this our gaudy world be past ! 

And that too bitter moment o'er, 
Oh ! may such trial he thy last 1 

This heart, alas ! perverted long, 

Itself destroyed, might there destroy ; 

To meet thee in the glittering throng. 
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 

Then to the things whose bliss or woe, 
Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 

That world resign — such scenes forego. 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 

From what ev'n here hath pass'd, may guess 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear. 
Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

Though long ahd mournful must it be, 
The thought that we no more may meet : 

Yet I deserve the stern decree, 

And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 

It felt not half so much to part, 
As if its guilt had made thee mine. 



IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 

When, from the heart where Sorrow sits, 
Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 

\nii o'er the clianging aspect flits, 
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye; 



OCCASIONAL j'iKcas. 402 

Hceil not lliat gloom, wliich soon sliuU sink: 
My thoughts iheir dungeon know too well; 

iiack lo my oreast the vvaiiderLMS shrink, 
And droo]) within iheir silent cell. 



SONNET, TO GENEVUA. 

Think eyes* blue tenderness, thy long fair hair. 
And the wan lustre of lliy features — caught 
I'Voin criiitoniplation — where serenely wrought. 

Seems Sorrow's softness charni'd from its despair — 

Have ihrn«n such S|)eaking saduess in thine ear, 
That — hut 1 know thy hlcssiul l)osom fraught 
With min(;s of unalloy'd and stainless tiiought — 

I siiould have deem'd thee dooni'd to earthly care. 

With such an aspect, by bis colours blent, 
Whi-n from bis beauty-hrcalhing pencil born, 
(Except that Ihoa bast nothing to re|)eni) 
Tiic Magdalene ol Guiilo saw tht; morn — 

Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent I 
With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. 



SONNET, TO THE SAME. 

Thy cheek is pale with thouglit, but not from woe. 
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush. 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 

And dazzle not thy dccp-l)lue eyes — but, oh! 
While gazing on theiii sterner eyes will gush, 
And into mini; my mother's weakness rush, 

Soft as the last drnjis round heaven's airy bow. 

Fv>r, though thy long dark lashes low depending, 
The soul of melancholy Gentleness 

Gieanis bke a seraph from the sky desci-nding, 
Above, all paiii, yet pitying all distress ; 

At once such majesiy with sweetness blending, 
1 worship more, but cannot love thee less. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

Is moments to delight (levntr<l, 

•'My life!" wii!i it;nderesi tone, you cry; 
Dear words! on whieli my heart had dotcdi 

If >out'i could neither fade iior the. 






464 OCCASIONAI, riECKS. 

To death ev'n hours like these must roll, 
Ah 1 then repeat those accents never : 

Or change " my life !" into " my soul !" 
Which, like my love, exists for ever. 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

I<ines composed on the occasion of his Royal Highness llie Prince 
Regent being seen standing between the coffin of Henry VIII. 
and Charles I., in the royal vault at Windsor. 

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties. 
By headless Cliarles see heartless liciiry lies; 
Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
It moves, it reigns — in all but name a king : 

Charles to his people, Henry to bis wife, 
— In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain. 
Each royal vampire wakes to lile again. 
Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these disgorge 
The blood and dust of both to mould a George. 



CONDOLATORY ADDRESS 

TO SARAH COUNTKSS OP JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE KEGENt'i 
KKTURNINO IlEU PICTURE TO MRS. MEE. 

When the vain triumph of the iiiij)etial lord, 
W/iom servile Rome obey'd, atid yet ahhorr'd, 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
That left a likeness of the brave or just ; 
What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry } 
What spread from face to face that wondering air? 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there! 
That absence proved his worih, — that absence fix'd 
His memory on the longing mind, urimix'd; 
And more decreed his glory to endure, 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze. 
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness. 
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less, 
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's crown, and of bis wits, 
If liis corrupted eye, and wither'd heart, 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart ; 



HCCA»r«)NM. I'lKCI.H. 



465 



Tlmt ia>fli>Sis slianie be ///*, and ours llic grief, 
To gaz.o on Ucaiity's band vvitliout iis chief' 
\ot comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our iiearts. 

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; — 
A fount that only wants its living stream; 
A night, with every star, iave Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present form shall be, 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; 
And mure on that rccall'd resemblance pause. 
Than all be shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine. 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine; 
The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair! 
Kach glance tliat wins us, and tlie life that throws 
A spell which will not let our looks repose. 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are siill as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And those must wait till every charm is gone, 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none: — 
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
III envious dimness ]iass'd thy portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and Ihine. 



ON Tin; di:atii of sir PETiiu parker, barl'^ 

TiiKKK is a tear for all that die, 

A moiirnei o'er the humblest grave ; 
But nations swell the funeral cry. 

And triumph weeps above the brave. 

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 

O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: 
In vain their bones unburied lie, 

All earth becomes their monument 

A tomb is theirs on every page, 

An rpitapii on every tongue: i 

The present hours, the future age, I 

Tor ti.ein bewail, to them belong. 



466 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound j 

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not, 

Lamented by admiring foes, 
Who would not share their glorious lot ; 

Who would not die the death they chose 

And, gallant Parker 1 thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 

And early valour, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts that bled with thee 
In woe, that glory cannot quell; 

And shuddering hear of victory. 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name ? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 

Alas ! for them, though not for thee, 
They cannot choose but weep the more ; 

Deep for the dead the grief must be. 
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

" O lachryraanim fons, tenero sacro 
Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater 
Felix 1 in imo qui scatentein 
Pector te, pid Nympha, sensit." 

Gkay's Pqemata, 

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes 

away, 
When the glow of eaily thought declines in feeling's dul' 

decay ; 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which 

fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be 

past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happi- 
ness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess t 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 46/ 

The inagic of their course is gone, or only points in vain 
Tlie shore to wliich their shiver'd sail shall never stretch 
ai^ain. 

Tlien ihe mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes 

down ; 
It cannot foel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears. 
Ami though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice 

appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract 

the hreast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former 

hope of rest; 
"Tis hut as ivy-leaves around the ruiu'd turret wreath, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey 

bt'ni'ath. 

Dii could 1 feel as I have felt, — or be what 1 have bfcn, 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd 

scene; 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though 

they be, 
So midst tiie wither'd waste of life, those tears wouhl flow 

to me. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

Thrre be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmnd ocean's pausing. 
The waves lie still and gisaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Iler liriiiht cliains o'er the deep; 

Whose hreast is pently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep : 

So till! spirit bows before thee. 

To listen and adore thee; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



€68 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

ODE FROM HIE FRENCH. 



We do not curse thee, \7aterloo ! 
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew j 
There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 
Kising from eacli gory trunk, 
Like the water-spout from ocean, 
With a strong and growing motion — 
It soars and mingles in the air, 
With that ol" the lost Lahedoyere — 
With that of him whose honour'd grave 
Contains tlie " bravest of the brave." 
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
But shall return to whence it rose; 
When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 
Never yet was heard such tiinnder, 
As then shall shake the world with wonder- 
Never yet was seen such lightning 
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning ! 
Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
By the sainted Seer of old, 
Show'ring down a fiery flood, 
Turning rivers into blood. '^ 



The chief has fallen, but not by you, 

Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 

When the soldier citizen 

Sway'd not o'er his follow-meu — 

Save in deeds that led them on 

Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son — 

Who, of all the despots handed, 

With that youthful chief competed? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated, 
Till lone TjTanny commanded? 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
The Hero sunk into the King ? 
Then he fell : — so perish all, 
Who would men by man enthral ! 



And thou, too, of the snow-white plume I 
Whose rcif m refused thee ev'n a tomb ;'* 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding. 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name ; 
Such as he of Naples wears, 
Who thy blood-bought title bears, 



OCCASIONAL PIICCE3. 469 

L\U\o. didst tlion deem, when dashing 

On tliy war-liorsf through the ranks 

Like a si ream which hursts its hanks, 
While liehti"ts cU^Ci, and salircs clashing 
Slione and slijvcr'd fast around tliee — 
Of ihc fate at last which found thee: 
Was that haughty j)hiine laid low 
15v a >lavc's di^lioiiest l)l()w ? 
Once — as the moon sways o'er the tide, 
It rolld in air, tlie warrior's guide; 
Throngli the smoke- created night 
Of the hiack and sulphurous fight, 
The soldier raised liis s(-eking eye 
To caicii the crest's ascendancy, — 
And as it onward roilmj; rose, 
So moved his heart upon our foes. 
There, where dcatii's hrief pang was quickest, 
And the haitlc's wreck lay thickest, 
StrewM heneath the advancing hanner 

Of the eaghi's hu; ning crest — 
(Tliere witii liiunder-clouds to fan her, 

IV/iu could then her wings arrest — 

Victory heaming from her hreast ?) 
While the hroken line enlarging 

Fell or (led along the plain ; 
There lie sure was Miirat charging! 

There lie ne'er shall charge again ! 



O'er glories gone the invaders march. 

Weeps Triu-'^ph o'er each levell'd arch — 

But h t Freedom rejoice, 

With her heart in her voice; 

But, her hand on her sword, 

Douhly shall sl'.e he adored; 

France hath twice too well ijcen taught 

The " moral lesson" dearly hought — 

Her salety sits not on a throne. 

With Capet or Napoleon ! 

But in equal rights and laws. 

Hearts anri hands in one great cause — 

Freedom, such as (iod hath givLn 

Unto all heneath his heav»;n, 

Willi iheir hrcatli, and Iroin their birth. 

Though Guilt would sweep ii from the earth; 

With a fierce and lavish hrnd 

Scattering nations' wealth like sand , 

Pouring nations' hlood like waier, 

In imperial seas of slaughter : 



470 OCCASIONAL FIBCBS 



But the heart and the mind 
And the voice of. mankind, 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud unio« ' 
The time is past wliun swords subduea-" 
Man may die — the soul's rencw'd: 
Ev'n in tliis low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 
Millions breathe hut to inherit 
Her for ever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble. 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
Smile they at this idle threat? 
Crimson tears will follow yet. 



FROM THE FUENCH. 
Must thou go, my glorious Chief,'^ 

Sever'd from thy faithful few ? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 

Maddening o'er tliat long adieu ? 
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal. 

Dear as boili have been to me— 
What are they to all I feel, 

With a soldier's faith for thee ? 

Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

First in fiijht but mightiest novf 
Many could a world control ; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

Death ; and envied those who fell, 
When their dying shout was heard. 

Blessing him they served so well.** 

Would that 1 were cold with those. 

Since this hour 1 livt; to see; 
When tlie doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee. 
Dreading each should set thee free\ 

( Jh ! altliough in dungeons pent. 
All their chains were light to me, 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

Would the sycophants of him 
Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 

Were his borrow'd glories dim. 
In his native darkness share? 



OCCASIONAL PIIiCKS. 471 

Were that world this hour bis own, 

All thou caln\ly dost resign, 
Could he purchase with that throne 

iicart like those which still are thine t 

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu t 

Never did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue. 

As his foes I know implore: 
All 1 ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave: 
Sharinj by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



ON THE STAB OP " THE LEGION OF HONOUR." 

WROU THE FRENCH. 

Star of the orave ! — whose beam hath sheo 

Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 

Thou radiant. and adored deceit ! 

Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,— 

Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 

Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ; 
The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honour here 
And thy light broke on human eyes. 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava roll'd thy stream of bJood, 
And swept down empires with its flood < 
Earth rock'd beneath tbcc to her base. 
As thou didst lighten through all space, 
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air. 
And set while thou wcrt dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the lov<diest hue 

Of three brighi colours,'' each <livine, 

And fit for lli.it celestial siyn ; 

For Freedom's liaiitl had blended them, 

Like tints in an immurial gcni. 

One tint was i)f the siiiil'eani's dyes; 
One, the Idiie depth of SiTapii't eyes; 



472 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

One, tlie pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light : 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

Star of the brave I thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free ! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her an-ay ; 
And soon, oh Goddess! may we be 
For evermore with them or thee 1 



NAPOLEON'S FARBWELL. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory 

Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 

She abandons me now — but the page of her story. 

The brightest or blackest, is fiU'd with my fame. 

I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only 

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far : 

1 have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, 

The last single Captive to millions in war. 

Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown'd me, 

1 made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 

But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 

Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 

Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won — 

Then the Kagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, 

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on Victory's sun! 

Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty rallies 

Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 

The violet still grows in the deptli of thy valleys ; 

Though vvither'd, thy tears will unfold it again — 

Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 

There are links which must break in tlie chain that has 

bound us, 
Then turn thee am' call on the Chief of thy choice! 



OCCASIONAL PIECS8 473 

DARKNESS. 

I HAU ■ dream, which was not ail a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Uaj'less, and pathless, and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; 

Morn came and went— and came, and brought do dAJ 

And men forgot their passions in the dread 

Of tiiis their desolation ; and all hearts 

Were cliili'd into a selfish prayer for light 

And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, 

The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 

The habitations of all things which dwell, 

Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 

Aud men were gather'd round their blazing homes 

To look once more into each other's face ; 

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : 

A fearful hope was all the world contaiu'd ; 

Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 

They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 

Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 

The brows of men by the despairing light 

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 

The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 

And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest 

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; 

And others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 

With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 

The pall of a past world ; and then again 

Wiih curses cast them down upon the dust. 

And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd : the wild bird shridt'd, 

Aud, ttrrified, did flutter on the ground 

And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes 

Caruo tame and tremulous ; the vipers crawl'd 

And twined themselves among the multitude, 

Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food: 

And War, which for a moment was no more. 

Dill glat himself again ; — a meal was bought 

With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 

Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 

All earth was but one thought — and that was death. 

Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 

Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 

Died, and (heir bones were tombless as their flesh | 

The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, 

Ev'n dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 

And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 



474 OCCASIONAL PIECES. I 

The biids and btasts and fainish'd men at nav, I 

'Jill lnuiger clung them, or the dropping dead 

Lurei! Uieir lank jav^s ; hinisc'lf sought out no foud| i 

iiiit with a piteous and perpetual moan, 

And a quick desolate tiy, licking the hand 

Which ansuer'd not with a caress — he died. 

The crowd was iandsh'd by degrees; but two | 

Of an enormous city did survive, 

And they were enenues: they met beside 

The dying euibers ni an altar-place 

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 

Foi an unholy usage; thry raked up, 

And »i;!\enng scraped wiiii their cold skeleton hands 

The J'eeble ashes, and their Iccble breath 

iSlew tor a little life, and made a Uarnc 

Which was a mockery ; ihen they lilted up 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each other's asiiccts — saw, and sliriek'd, and died — 

Ev'n of their mutual hideousness they died, 

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 

Famine bad written Fiend. The world was void, 

The populous and the powerful was a lump. 

Season less, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 

A lump of death — a chaos of » ard clay. 

The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 

Ships sailorlcss lay rolling on the sea. 

And tlieir masts fell dovMi piecemeal ; as they dropp'd 

They ilept on the abyss wit;. out a suige — 

The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 

The jMoon, their mistress, had expired before; 

The winds were withcr'd in the stagnant air, 

.■\nd the clouds jierisli'd 1 IJarkness liad no need 

Of aid from them — She was the Universe. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE, 

A. FACT LITKRALLY RENI3EIIED. 

I STOOu beside the grave of him wiio blazed 

The comet of a season, and 1 saw 
The humblest of all sepulclires, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
V.iib name no clearer than the names unknown, 
Which lay unread around it; and 1 ask'd 

Thr- (jardeiier of that ground, why it might be 
That for this i>luni strang(^rs his memory task'd 

Through tiie tliick deaths of half a centtiry ? 



OCLAslD.NAi. I'P'.CX.-.. 4.0 

Anil thus answcr'tl — " Well, I do not know 
\\U\ frequent Inivellers turn to pilgrims so; 
lie .lied before my day of Sextonsliip, 

Antl 1 hail not the diggini? of tjiis grave." 
And is tliis all ? I thought, — dud do we rip 

The veil of Iiuniortality ? and erave 
I know not wliat of honour and of light 
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? 
So soon, and so su.';cessless ? As I said, 
The. Architeet of all on whicli we tread, 
For earth is but a loiubstone, did essay 
To extricate remerabrance Irom ibe clay. 
Whose uunglings might c^nlfu^t■ a Newion's tho i:rbt, 

Were it not that ad life iiiusi end in one. 
Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught ,. |j 

As 'twere tlie twilight of a former Sun, |1 

Thus spoke he, — " 1 believe the man of whom |l 

You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, ji. 

Was a most famous writer in his day, ;]• 

And theref(.re travellers step from out their wav jj 

To pay him honour, — and myself wliatc'ir 1] 

Your honour pleases " — then iimst pleased I <ti >'V j^ 

From out my pocket's avaricious i:ook <j 

Some certain coins of silvtr, which as 'twere 11 

Perforce 1 gave this man, tlioujih I could spare i| 

So nmch but inconveniently : — Ye smile, || 

I see ye, ye profane; ones ! all the wlnle, ji 

Because my homely jdirascthe truth wotdd tell. Is 

You are the fools, not 1 — (or I did dwell d 

With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, H 

On that Old tcxtim's natural homily, '! 

In which there was Obscurity and Fame, — j] 

The Glory and the Nothing ot a Name. jj 



I'UOMETHEUS. 

Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 
The sufferings of mortality, 
Seen in their sad reality. 
Were not as things tliat gods despise ; 
What was thy pity's reconii)encc ? 
A sdtnt sulTering. anrl intense ; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All tliat the proud can feel of paia. 
The ngiiiiy they do not show, 
The sntf^M-aiing >euM; of woe. 



«4ti OCCASION. Al. I'IKCLS. 

Which speaks but in its lonelineety 
And then is jealous lesi the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its. voice is echoless. 

Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will, 
Which torture where they canaot kill 
And the inexorable Heaven, 
And the deaf tyranny or Fate, 
The ruling principle of Hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
The things it may annihilate. 
Refused thee ev'n the boon to die : 
The wretched gift eternity 
Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
Was but the menace which flung back 
On him the torments of thy rack ; 
The fate thou didst so well foresee. 
But would not to appfii-e Inni tell; 
And in thy Silence «a> ins Sentence, 
And in his Soul a vain ripcntance, 
And evil dread so ill dissembled. 
That in his hand the lightnings trembled* 

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind. 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness, 
And strengthen Man with his own mind; 
But baffled as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy. 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convidM^ 

A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 
> A troubled stream from a pure source ; 

And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence : 
To which his Spirit map oppose 
Itself — and equal to all woes. 

And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
Whicli ev'n in torture can descry 

Its own concentred recompence, 
Triumphant where it dares defy. 
And making Death a Victory. 



OCCASIONAL I'IKCKS. 4JJ 

SONNET. 

RoussKAU — Voltaire — our Gibbon— and De Stael — 
Lcman !'^ these names are worthy of thy shore. 
Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no more, 

Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 

To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
Of mighty miuds doth hallow in the core 

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous ; but by thee, 

How much more. Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 

The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal. 
Which of the heirs of imniortdily 

Is proud, and makes the brtatli of glory real 1 



CHILDE HAROLD'S ADII.U TO ENGIAND. / j 

Adieu, adieu 1 my native shore i' 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; |, 

The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, jl 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. {j 

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea |j 

We follow in his ilight; i] 

Farewell awhile to him and thee, |i 

My native Land — Good Niglic 1 J! 

A few short hours and lie will rise j: 

To give the morrow birth ; |i 

And I shall hail the main and skies, || 

But not my mother earth. jj 

Deserted is my own good hall, Jj 

Its hearth is desolate ; .' 

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; jj 

My dog howls at the gate. 

Come hither, hither, mv little page ! 

Why dost thou weep and v^aii.' 
Or dost thou dread the l)ill()v> s rage, 

Or tremble at the ^-alu.' 
But dash the tear-drop ironi thine eye ; 

Our ship is swiff and strong: 
Our fleetest falcon scarce ran fly 

More merrily along. 

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind : 
Yet marvel not. Sir Chihie, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 



fi 



478 OCCASIONAL PIECKS. 

For 1 have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend, save these alone 

But thee — and one above. 

•' My father bless'd mc fervently, 

Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again." — 
Enough, enough, my little lad! 

Such tears become thine eye ; 
If I thy guileless bosom had, 

Mine own would not be dry. 

Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoraaa. 

Why dost thou look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 

Or shiver at the gale ? — 
" Deem'st thou 1 tremble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

" My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake, 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer sliall she make .'" 
Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay; 
But I, who am of lighter mood, 

Will laugh to flee away. 

For who would trust the seeming sight 

Of wife or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue ey«» 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 
And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should 1 for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vaiD, 

Till fed by stranger hands i 
But long ere I come back again 

He'd tear mc where he stands. 
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming l)rine ; 
Nor care what land thou bcar'st me to 

ho not again to mine. 



OCCASIONAL PIECK8. 47t 

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue vavet 

And when you fail my sight. 
Welcome, ye deserts, and yc caves 1 

My native Land — Good Night I 



TO INEZ. 



1. 
Nat, smile not at my sullen brow ; 

Alas ! 1 cannot smile again : 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in inn. 

2. 

And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
I bear, corroding joy and youth? 

And wilt thou vainly seek to know 

A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 

3. 

It is not love, it is not hate. 

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly frum all I prized the most: 

4. 

It is that weariness which springs 
From all 1 meet, or hear, or see : 

To me nu pleasure Beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 

5. 

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; 

That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 

6. 
What Exile from himself can flee? 

To zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be. 

The blight of life — the demon Thought. 



Yet others riipt in pleasure seem. 
And laste of all rliat 1 forsake; 

Uli ! may they still of transport dream, 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake I 



4.8t OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Through many a clime 'tis mine tu go, 
Willi many a retrospection curst ; 

x\nd all my solace is to know, 

Wliate'er betides, I've known the wcTst. 

9. 

What is that worst ? Nay, do not ask — 

In pity from the search forbear : 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 



WAR SONG OF THE GREEKS. 

1. 

Tambocrgi 1 Tambourgi ! thy larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Ciiimariot, Hlyrian, and dark Suliote ! 

2. 

Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 

In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 

To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock. 

And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 



Sliall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego ? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 



Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 



Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves. 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 

fi. 
I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the voiinu; bride with iier long- flowing hair, 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 



OCCAHIONaL PlKCk». 481 

7. 

I lore the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many>toned Ijit^ 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

8. 

Remember the moment when Previsa fell. 
The shrieks of the conqucr'd, the conquerors* yell ; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared 



I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: 
Since the days of our piophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

10. 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped. 
Let the yeilow-hair'd Giaours view his horse-tail with dread | 
When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks, 
llo>v few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks 1 

11. 

Selictar ! unsheathe then our chiefs scimitar ! 
Tambourgi ! thy lamm gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors or view us no more ! 



SONG. 
1. 

Thk isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung I 
Eternal summer gilds them yrt. 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

2. 

The Scian and the Teian muse. 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds whieli echo further wes^ 

Than your aire*' " ialandt of the Blest." 



482 OCCASIONAL PIBCSS. 

3. 

Tlie mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free 

For standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

4. 
A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-horn Salamis 
And ships, by thousands, lay below, 

And men in nations; — all were his I 
He counted them at break of day — 
And when the sun set where were they ? 

5. 

And where aic they? and where art ihovL, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more t 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

6. 
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 

Though link'd among a fetter d race, 
To feel at least a patriot's shame, 

Ev'n as I sing, suffuse my face; 
for what is left tLc poet here ? 
For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

7. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled, 
Earth 1 render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylse. 

8. 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah 1 no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head. 
But one arise, — we come, we come 1" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

9. 
In vain — in vain ; strike other chords j 

Fill high the cup with Samian winel 
Leave battles to the Turkisii hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine I 



OCUASIUNAL PIECES. 48S 

Hark ! rising tu the ignoble call^ 
How answers each bold Bacchanal 

10. 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 

Whure is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 

Tiie nobler and the manlier one? 
You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant tl'.em for a slave? 

11. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of ihomes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine: 

He served— but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our nuisters then 

Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

12. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend { 

That tyrant was Miltiades! 
Oh ! that the present hour would lend 

Another despot of the Uind! 

Such chains as his were sure to hind. 

13. 

Fill high the iiowl with Samian wine I 

Oil Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
E.\i^ts ibe remnant of a line 

bnch as the Uoiic mothers bore; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The HeracUdan blood might own. 

14. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 

They have a king who Imys and sells; 
In native swords, and native ranks. 

The only hope of courage dwells ; 
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
Would break your shield, however broad. 

15. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Oin- virgins dance beneath the shada 
1 see their glorious black eyes shine; 

lint gazing on each glowing maid, 
Ms .1 .11 lint liurning tear-drop laves, 
To t'link SUCH breasts must suckle slaves 






484 OCCASIONAL FIECBS. 

16. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan -like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine 1 



AN EPITAPH. 

You that seek what life is in death, 
Now find it air that once was breath. 
New names unknovkn — old names gone t 
Till time end bodies, and souls none. 

Reader, use your time, — there be 

Few steps to your eternity. 



LIFE. 

Ah lifii^! sweet drop drowned in a sea of sours, 
A flying good, posting to doubtful end ; 

Still loving months and years, to gain new hours; 
Fain time to have and spare, yet forced to spend { 

The growth decrease a moment, all thou hast ; 

That gone, are known the rest to come, or past. 



ATTRIBUTED POEMS. 



Thi following, though not included in the London editioni, liaira 
keen generally attributed to the pen of Lord Byron, and as luch, 
have heen appended to the Pariaian collections ; the present pub- 
lisher has therefore thought fit to insert them here. 



ODE. 

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul ! 

Oh, shame to thy children and thee, 
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall. 

How wretched thy portion shall be ; 
Derision shall strike thee forlorn, 

A mockery that never shall die ; 
The curses of Hate and the hisses of Scorn 

Shall burthen the winds of the sky ; 
And proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurl'd 
The laughter of Triumph, the jeers of the World. 

Oh, where is thy spirit of yore. 

The spirit that breathed in thy dead, 
When gallantry's star was the beacon before. 

And honour the passion that led ? 
Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep, 

"They groan from the place of their rest. 
And wrathfully miirnuir, and sullenly weep, 

To see the foul stain on thy breast; 
For where is the glory they left thee in trust ? 
'Tis scatter'd in darkness, 'tis trampled in dust. 

Go, look through the kingdoms of earth. 

From Indus all round to the pole, 
And something of goodness, of honour, and worth, 

Shall brighten the sins of the soul ; 
But thou art alone in thy shame. 

The world cannot liken thee there ; 
Abhorrence and vice have distigur'd thy name 

Beyond the low reach of compare ; 
Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us through time 
A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime. 



486 ATTRIBUTED POF.MS. 

While conquest illurnin'd his sword, 

While yet in his prowess he stood, 
Thy praises still follow'd the steps of thy Lord, 

And welcomed the torrent of blood ; 
Though tyranny sat on his crown, 

And wither'd the nations afar. 
Yet bright in thy view was that Despot's renown, 

Till Fortune deserted his car ; 
Then, back from the Chieftain thou slunkest away— 
The foremost to insult, the first to betray. 

Forgot were the feats he had done. 

The toils he had borne in thy cause ; 
Thou turned'st to worship a new rising sun. 

And waft ether scngs of applause : 
But the storm was beginning to lour, 

Adversity clouded his beam ; 
And honour and faith were the brag of an hour, 

And loyalty's self but a dream ; 
To him thou hadst banish'd thy vows were restored ; 
And the first that had scoflTd were the first that adored. 

M'hat tumult thus burthens the air ? 
What throng thus encircles his throne ? 
'Tis the shout of delight, 'tis the millions that swear 
His sceptre sliall rule them alone. 
Reverses shall brighten their zeal. 
Misfortune shall hallow his name. 
And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel 

How quenchless the spirit and flame 
That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are on fire, 
For the Hero they love, and the Chief they admire. 

Their Hero has rush'd to the field : 
His laurels are cover'd With shade, 
But where is the spirit that never should yield, 
~ The loyalty never to fade. 
In a moment desertion and guile 
Abandon'd him up to the foe ; 
The dastards that fiourish'd and grew at his smile, 

Forsook and renounced him in woe ; 
And the millions that swore they would perish to save. 
Behold him a fugitive, captive, and slave. 

The savage all wild in his glen 
Is nobler and better than thou ; 
Tliou standest a wonder, a marvel to men, 
Such perfidy blackens thy brow. 
If thou wert the place of ray birth, 
At once from thy arms would I sever; 
I d fly to the uftennost ends of the earth. 
And unit thee for ever and ever ; 



ATTRIBIITISD FORMS. 4$7 

A 1(1 thinking of thee in my long>after years, 
Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears. 

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul I 

Oil, shame to thy children and thee 1 
L'liN^ise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, 

How wretched thy portion shall be I 
Derision shall strike thee forlorn, 

A mockery that never shall die ; 
Till- iiirses of Hate and the hisses of Scorn 

Shall burthen the winds of thy sky ; 
And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd 
The laughter of Triumph, the jeers of the World. 



MADAME LAVALETTE. 

Let Edinburgh Critics o'erwhelm with their praises 

Their Madame de Stael, and their famed La Pinass*: 
Like a meteor, at best, proud philosophy blazes, 

And the fame of a Wit is as brittle as glass : 
But cheering the beam, and unfading the splendour 

Of thy torch, Wedded Love ! and it never has yet 
Shone with lustre more holy, more pure, or more tender, 

Than it shed on the name of the fair Lavalette. 

Then fill high the wine cup, e'en virtue shall bless it, 

And hallow the goblet which foams to her name; 
The warm lip of Beauty shall piously press it, 

And Hymen shall honour the pledge of her fame : 
To the health of the Woman, who freedom and life too 

Has risk'd for her Husband, we'll pay the just debt; 
And hail with applauses the Heroine and Wife too. 

The constant, the noble, the fair Lavalette. 

Her foes have awarded, in impotent malice. 

In their captive a doom which all Eurojie abhors, 
And turn from the slaves of the priest-haiiiitpd palace. 

While those who replace them there blush for their carae. 
But, in ages to conic, when the Mood- tarnish'd glory 

Of Dukes and of Marshals in darkness hath set, 
Hearts shall throb, eyes shall glisten, at reading the story 

Of the fond self-devotion of fair Lavalette. 



FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. 

On I land of my fathers and mine, 

The noblest, the best, and the bravest; 

Heart-broken, and lorn, 1 resign 
The joys and the hopes which thou gavest ! 



{gg ATTRIBUTEn POEMS. 

Dear mother of Freedom ! farewell ! 

Ev'n Freedom is irksome to me ; 
Be calm, throbbing heart, nor rebel, 

For reason approves the decree. 

Did I love ? — Be my witness high Heaven! 

That mark'd all my frailties and fears; 
I adored but the magic is r«v»n 

Be the memory expunged by n.y tars! 

The moment of rapture how bright! 

How dazzling, how transient its glare I 
A comet in splendour and flight, 

The herald of darkness and care. 

Recollections of tenderness gone, 
Of pleasure no more to return ; 

A wanderer, an outcast, alone. 

Oh ! leave me, untortured, to mourn. 

Where — where shall my heart find repose? 

A refuge from memory and grief ? 
The gangrene, wherever it goes, 

Disdains a fictitious relief. 

Could I trace out the fabulous stream, 
Which washes remembrance away, 

Again might the eye of Hope gleam 
The dawn of a happier day. 

Hath wine no oblivious power ? 

Can it pluck out the sting from the braisf 
The draught niiglit beguile for an hour, 

But still leaves behind it the pain. 

Can distance or time heal the heart 
Tliat bleeds from the innermost pore? 

Or intemperance lessen its smart. 
Or a cerate apply to its sore ? 

If I rush to the ultimate pole. 
The form I adore will be there, 

A phantom to torture my soul. 
And mock at my bootless despair. 

The zephyr of eve, as it flies. 

Will whisper her voice in mine ear. 

And, moist with her sorrows and sight. 
Demand for Love's altar a tear. 

And still in the dreams of the day, 
And still in the visions of night. 

Will fancy lier beauties display, 
Disordering, deceiving the sight. 



ATrRIBUTKD P0KM8. 4S9 

Hrnrc, vain fleeting images, hence! 

Grim pliantoms that 'wilder my brain, 
Merc frauds upon reason and sense, 

Engendcr'd by folly and pain 

Did I swear on the altar of Heaven 

My fealty to her I adored ? 
Did she give back the vows I had given, 

And plight back the plight of her lord ? 

If I err'd for. a moment from love. 

The error I flew to retrieve ; 
Kiss'd the heart I bad wounded, and strove 

To soothe, ere it ventured to grieve. 

Did I bend, who had ne'er bent before ? 

Did I sue, who was used to command ? 
Love forced me to weep and implore, 

And pride was too weak to withstand. 

Then why shonid one frailty, like mine, 

Repented, and wash'd with my tears, 
Erase those impressions divine, 

The faith and affection of years ? 

Was it well between anger and love. 
That pride the stern umpire should be; 

And that heart should itsflintiness prove 
On none, till it proved it on me ? 

And, ah! was it well, when I knelt 

Thy tenderness so to conceal. 
That witnessing all which I felt, 

Thy sternness forbad thee to feel ? 

Tiicn, whrn the dear pledge of our love 

Lcdk'd up to her mother and smiled, 
?ay, was there no impulse that strove 

To back the appeal of the ohild ? 

Tliat bosom so callous and chill, 

So treacherous to love and *n me; 
All! felt it no heart-rending tDriil, 

As it turn'd from the innoceut's plea ? 

That ear, which was open to all, 

Was ruthlessly closed to its lord ; 
Those accents, which fiends would enthn^ 

Refused a sweet peace-giving word. 

And think'at thou, dear object— for stjil 

To my b!>5om thou only art life, 
And spite of my pride and my will, 

1 bless thee, I woo Ibce, my wife ' 



490 ATTRIBUTED POEMS. 

Oh ! think'st thou that absence shall bring 
The balm which will give thee relief? 

Or time, on its life-wasting wing, 
An antidote yield for thy grief? 

Thy hopes will be frail as the dream 

Which cheats the long moments of night, 

But melts in the glare of the beam 
Which breaks from the portal of light: 

For when on thy babe's smiling face 
Thy features and mine intertwined 

The finger of Fancy shall trace, 
The spell shall resistlessly bind. 

The dimple that dwells on her cheek, 
The glances that beam from her eye, 

The lisp as she struggles to speak, 
Shall dash every smile with a sigh. 

Then I, though whole oceans between 
Their billowy barriers may rear, 

Shall triumph, though far and unseen, 
Unconscious, uncali'd, shall be there. 

The cruelty sprang not from thee, 
'Twas foreign and foul to thy heart, 

That levellM its arrow at me, 
And fix'd the incurable smart. 

Ah, no ! 'twas another than thine 
The hand which assail'd my repose ; 

It struck — and too fatally — mine 
The wound, and its offspring of woes. 

They hated us both who destroy'd 
The buds and the promise of Spring 

For who, to replenish the void, 

New ties, new affections can bring ? 

Alas ! to the heart that is rent 

What nostrums can soundness restore? 

Or what, to the bow over-bent, 

The spring which it carried before ? 

The rent heart will fester and bleed. 
And fade like the leaf in the blast ; 

The crack'd yew no more will recede, 
Though vi'g'rous and tough to the last. 

1 wander — it matters not where ! 

No clime can restore me my peace, 
Or snatch from the frown of despair, 

A cheering— » fleeting release 1 



AnnruuTKn poKM.s. 191 

How rIowIv the moments will move. I 

How teiiious the footsteps of years 
When valley ami mountain and grove 

Shall change but the scene of my tean. 

The classic men-.orinls which nod. 

The spot dear to science and lore, 
Sarcophagui>, temple, and sod, 

Excite me and ravish no more. 

The stork on the perishing wall 

Is lictter and happier than I: 
Content in Ids ivy-huilt hall ; 

Me hangs out his home in the skj. 

But houseless and heartless I rove, 

My hosom all hared to the wind, 
The viiiim of piide and of love, 

I Si ek — l)ut, ah ! where can I find ? 

I seek wliat no tribes can bestow — 

F ask what no clime can impart — 
A charm which can neutralize woe, 

And dry up the tears of the heart. 

I ask it — I seek it- in vain — 

From Ind to the northernmost pole; 
Unheeded — unpitied — complain. 

And pour out the grief of ray soul. 

What hosom shall heave when I sigh ? 

\Vhat tears shall respond when I weep? 
To my wailings what wail shall reply ! 

What eye mark the vigils I keep ? 

Ev'n thou, as ihou Icarnest to prate, 

Dear hnlie — while remotely I rove — 
Shall count it a ihity to hate 

Where nature comniands tl;ee to love. 

The foul tongue of malice shall ))eal 

My vices, my faults, in thine ear. 
And teacli thee, with demon-like zeal, 

A father's afTectiou to fear. 

And oh ! if in sorr.e distant day 

Thine ear may he siriiok with my lyre. 

And nature's true iiulcx may saj[, 
" It may he — ii must lie my sirel" 

Perchance lo thy prejudiced eye 

Obnoxious my form may appear, 
Ev'n nature bt deaf to my sigh, 

Am' lutv refuse me a tear. 



- b 



492 ATTRIBUTED POEMS. 

Yet sure in this isle, where my songs 
Have echoe'l from mountain and dell, 

Some tongue the sad tale of my wroiigi 
With grateful emotion may tell. 

Some youth, who had valued my lay, 
And warm'd o'er the tale as it ran, 

To thee e'en may venture to say, 
" His frailties were those of a man." 

They were ; they were human, hH^swell'd 
By envy, and malice, and scorn, 

Each feeling of nature rebell'd. 
And hated the mask it hath worn. 

Though human the fault— how severe, 

How harsh the stern sentence pronounced I 

F'en pride dropp'd a niggardly tear 
My love as it grimly denounced 

"Tis past: the great struggle is o'er; 

The war of my bosom subsides; 
And passion's strong current no more 

Impels its inipftuous tides. 

'Tis past : my atfections give way ; 

The ties of n)y nature are broke ; 
The summous of pride I obey, 

And break Lo7e's degenerate yoke. 

I fly, like a bird of the air, 

In search of a home and a rest ; 

A balm for the sickness of care, 
A bliss for a bosom unblest. 

And swift as the swallow that floats. 
And bold as the eagle that soars. 

Yet dull as the owlet, whose notes 
The dark fiend of midnight deplores 1 

Where gleam the gay splendours of East, 
The dance and the bountiful board, 

I'll bear me to Luxury's feast, 
To exile the form I adored. 

In full brimming goblets I'll quaff 
The sweets of the Lethean spring. 

And join in the Bacchanal's laugh. 
And trip in the fairy-form'd ring. 

Where pleasure invites will I rpam. 
To drown the dull metriory of care, 

An exile from hope and from home, 
A fugitive chased by despair. 



AI-TKIBUTKD PUl!.M». 

Farewell to thee, land of the brave 1 
Farewell to thee, land of my birth ! 

Vlieii telnIle^t$ around thee shall rave, 
Siill — still may they homage thy worthl 

Wife, infant, and country, and friend, 

Ye wizard my fancy no more, 
I fly from your solace, and wend 

To weep on some kindlier shore. 

The grim visaged fiend of the storm 
That raves in this agonized breast, 

Still raises his pesiileni form, 

Till Death calm ihe tumult to rest. 



I'J.A 



ODE TO THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA. 

PxACK to thee, isle of the ocean ! 
Hail to thy breezes and billows 1 

Where, rolling its tides, in perpetual devotion, 
The white wave its plumy surf pillows! 
Kiel) shall thechaplet be history shall weave thee; 

Whose undying verdure shall bloom on thy brow, 
When nations that now in obscurity leave thee, 

To the w and of oblivion alternately bow 1 
Unchanged in thy glory — unstain'd in thy farce, 
The homage of ages shall hallow thy name. 

Hail to the Chief who re))Oses 
On tliRe the rich weight of his glory ! 

When fill'd to its limit, life's chronicle closes, 
His deeds shall be sacred in story 1 
His prowess shall rank with the fir^t of all ages, 

And nionarchs hereafter shall bow to his worth — 
The songs of the poets — the lessons of sages 

bhall hold him the wonder and grace of the earth. 
The meteors of history before thee shall fall, 
Lthp^cd by the splendour, thou meteor of Gaul. 

Hygeian breezes shall fan thee, 
Island of glory resplendent ! 

rilgrims from nations far distant shall man thee, 
I ribcs, as thy waves, independent ! 
On thy far-gloaming strand the wanderer shall st^^ him 

To snatch a brief glance at a spot so reiiown'd, 
Lach turf, and each stone, and each clitf shall delay hira, 

\\ hrrc the step of thy Exile hath hallow'd thy ground I 
From him shalt thou borrow a lustre clivine, 
The wane of his sun was the rising of thine. 



4^1 ATTRIHUTISD POKMS. 

Whose were the hands that enslaved him ? 
Hands which had weakly withstood him — 

Nations which, wiiile they had oftentimes braved him, 
Never till no^w had subdued him ! 
Monarchs, who ot'f to his clemency stooping, 

Received l)ack their crowns from the plunder of war — 
The vanquisher vanquish'd, the eagle now drooping. 

Would qucMcb v\ith their sternness the ray of his stiir! 
But clothed in new splendour the glory appears, 
And rules the ascendant, the planet of years. 

Pure be the health of thy mountains ! 
Rich be the green of thy pastures 1 

Limpid and lasting the streams of thy fountains 
Thine annals unstain'd by disasters! 
SuprenA in the ocean a rich altar swelling. 

Whose shrine shall be hail'd by the prayers of mankind— 
Thy xock-beach the rags of the tempest repelling — 

The wide-wasting contest of wave and of wind — 
Aloft on thy battlements long be tmfurl'd 
The eagle that decks thee, the pride of the world. 

Fade shall the lily, now blooming : 
Where is the hand which can nurse it 

Nations v.ho rtar'd it shall watch its consuming, 
Untimely mildews shall curse it. 
Then shall the violet that blooms in the valleys 

Impart to the gale its reviving perfume 
Then when the spirit of Liberty rallies, 

To chant forth its anthems on Tyranny's tomb, 
Wide Europe shall fear lest thy star should break forth, 
Eclipsing the pestilent orbs of the north. 



TO THE LILY OF FRANCE. 

Ere thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind, 

False emblem of innocence, stay. 
And yield, as thou fad'st, for the use of mankind, 

The lesson that marks thy decay. 

Thou wert fair as the beam of the morn, 

And rich as the pride of the mine: 
Thy charms are all faded, and hatred and scorn, 

The curses of freedom, are thine. 

Thou wert gay in the smiles of the world. 

Thy shadow protection and power, 
But now thy bright blossom is shrivel'd and£Uil'd 

The grace of thy country no more. 



ATTRIBUTRD POEMJI. *0t 

For Corniption hath fed on thy leaf, 

And Bigotry weaken'd thy stem ; 
Now tliose who have fear'd thee shall smile at thy grief, 

And those who adored thee condemn. 

The valley that gave thee thy birth, 

Shall weep for the hope of its soil ; 
The legions that fought for thy beauty and worth, 

Shall hasten to share in thy spoil. 

As a by-word, thy blossom shall be 

A mock and a jest among men, 
The proverb of slaves, and the sneer of the free, 

In city, and mountain, and glen. 

Oh! 'twas Tyranny's pestilent gale 

That scatter'd thy buds on the ground, 
That threw the blood-stain on thy virgin-white Teil, 

And pierced thee with many a wound ! 

Then thy puny leaf shook to the wind 

Thy stem gave its strength to the blast, 
Thy full bursting blossoms its promise resign'd. 

And fell to the storm as it pass'd. 

For no patriot vigour was there, 

No arm to support the weak flower. 
Destruction pursued its dark herald — Despair, 

And wither'd its grace in an hour. 

Yet there were who pretended to grieve, 

There were who pretended to save, 
Mere shallow empyrics, who came to deceive, 

To revel and sport on its grave. 

O thou land of the lily, in vain 

Thou struggles! to raise its pale head ! 
The faded bud never shall blossom again, 

The violet will bloOm in its stead. 

At thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind, 

False emblem of innocence, stay, 
And yield, as thou fad'si, for the u&e of mankind. 

This lesson to mark thy decay 1 



TO JESSY. 



TUB VOI.I.OWING ITAN/AS WI'.ltK AtmiiKSSKl) IIV LOBD BYBUH T« 
MIS LXUr, A »KW >!".NTII» BKKOKK TIIBIR SBPICSiTIOlf. 

TuERB is a mystic thread of life 

So dearly wreallu-d witli mine alone, 

That l)e>iiii>'> rt-leiuliss knife 
At once must sever hulh oi no»<>. 



196 ATTRIKUTKD POCMS 

There is a. form on which these eyes 
Have oitca gazed with lond delight 

By day that form their joys supplies, 
And dreaais restore it through the Dight. 

There is a voice whose tones inspire 

Such thrills of rapture through my breatt ; 

I would not hear a seraph choir, 
Unless that voice could Join the rest. 

There is a, face whose blushes tell 
Affection's tale upon the cheek 

But, pallid at oife fond farewell, 
Proclaims wore love than words can speak. 

There is a lip which mine hath prest, 
And none had ever prest before, 

It vow'd to make me sweetly blest. 
And mine — mine only, press it more. 

There is a bosom — all my own — 
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head ; 

A mouth which smiles on me alone. 
An eye whose tears with mine are shed. 

There are two hearts whose movements thrill 

In unison so closely sweet ! 
That, pulse to pulse responsive still. 

That both must heave — or cease to beat. 

There are two aoula whose equal flow, 
In gentle streams so calmly run. 

That when they part — they part ! — ah, no I 
They cannot part — those souls are one. 



LINES 



IDDREtSKD BV LORD BVBON TO MR. HOBHOOSB ON HIS ELKCriok 
FOR WKSTMIKSTER. 

" Mors Janua vitw." 

Would you get to the house through the true gate, 
Much quicker than even Whig Charlev went. 

Let Parliament send you to Newgate, 
And Newgate will send you to — Parliament. 



L 



=j| 



ATTRIUUTBD FOKIfS. 497 

ENIGMA. 

'TwAS whispered in lieaveu, 'twas mutteicd in hell, 
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell : 
On tne contincs of earih 'twas permitted to rest, 
And the deptlis of the ocean its presence confess'd. 
'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder. 
Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, 
Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death ; 
It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, 
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth : 
Without it the soldier, the seaman niiiy roam, 
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. 
In the wliispers of conscience its voice will be found, 
Nor e'en in tlie whirlwind of passion be drown'd : 
'Twill not soften the lieart, and though deaf to the ear, 
'Twill make it acutely and instantly hear. 
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower — 
Oh ! breathe on it softl/ — it dies in an hour. 



FRAGMENTS OF AN INCOMPLETE POEM. - 

Should'st thou — aud thoi should'st know me — chance to 
read 

A line or two that anguish wreaks hereon ; 
Fhou niay'st perceive one woe hath been thy deed. 

And in those hours when joy is reeling on. 
And suflering is heard with little heed, 

Should'st thou once chance to open and to con, 
The ])age that claims thy pity, thou might'st deem, 
My wrongs are not so paltry as they seem. 

Wrongs which my persecutors would have writ 
In blood more pure than mine — so pure their own: 

Wrongs too, whose brand by thee had erst been litj, 
To be revived by any vulgar clown, 

M'hose stupid grossness or whose barren wit 

Could count no breath but what himself bad blown, 

So sweet, or pure, or hallow'd as his tongue. 

Or fit supply for his all-hallow 'd lung. 

And in tlmse hours of grief, which God foretend. 

But which will happen to the happiest, 
Should'st THOU thyself in passing chance to bcni 

A tearful glance of kindred interest — 
Whilst scalding tears, may be, like mine dwcend. 

To scar thy chrek, or sighs convulse thy rest ; 
I'pon this sheet Oh! may'st thou not repent, 
riiat e'er another heart by thee was rent. 



493 ATTRIBUTED POEMS. 

But will such thoughts not come? M^hen far away, 

From whence the full forgiveness is unheard, 
Which Jove has daily breatlied : when day by day, 

The wretched recollection has recun'd, 
And none declare what one alone could say, 

May-he thine ears will yearn to hear that word. 
Look then but smilingly upon this lay ; 
It breatlies in candour all that one could say. 

It has return'd his blessing for thy curse: 

It has retorted constant love for hate: 
It would then soothe thine anguish as a nurse* 

It would console thee when disconsolate: 
It would defend thee wlien thy foes asperse: 

It would protect thine uii])roiected state. 
Such is his vengeance, such his harsh return, 
For injury, coniuinely and spurn ! — 

Twill be his joy to aid thee if he can : 

• Twill be his pride his solace should avail ; 
'Twill be his glory to conduct the van 

Against thy foes, and fighting for the frail. 
'Twill be his boast to a|>prove himself a man : 

The more thy banded enemies prevail. 
The worthier of him t'oppose the throng, 
And join the weaker to o'ercome the strong. — 

This is my youth again, heroic age, 

Which some harsii converse in the track of man 
Had damp'd or curdled for this later stage. 

I had scarce thought it when uiy course began 
Nor dreamt to turn, or satirist, or sage : 

Ur that one sorrow could one half, it can; 
Hut freshness comes with the recurring thought, 
Which cancels all the interval as nought. — 
A freshness in the which my breath is free, 

My soul gains vigour, and my heart expands; 
As, ill my sadder days of revelry, 

' Twas once my wont, with fever-trembling hand* 
To meet the early morning's reveillee. 

The morning freshness of all climes and lands, 
Excepting London, where a ribald night. 
Is certainly not mended by the light. 

That sort of misty, smoky, dirty dawn 

Should be excluded from all simile : 
Unfit, but to provoke a lazy yawn, 

E'en in the most accustom'd debauchee; 
Your Picadilly pavement for a lawn, 

And Crocktord's looking dingy as my be, 
Tith a few loungers reeling home to bed, 
Or fancying. the gutter in its stead. , 



ATTRIIIUTLO FUEMS. ^9 

Now, charming critics, I have done : — 'Tis time 
To turn tuy independent thoughts to you, 

And though I don't submit a single rhyme, 
To your .adjudication — we'll pursue 

K style of raving, tempting the sublime, 
And start at once into our story too, 

Merely because it suits my present whim, 

Aptly to use the pen I freshly trim. 

'Twill be, unlike my labours heretofore, — 
Just written as a learned scribe dictated; 

Although in reading some Romance of yore. 
An Amadis or something antiquated 

And stuff' d with chivalry — I slyly swore 
The worthy Doctor stole or had dilated, 

On some such tale he found in the collectiona, 

Just published with additions and corrections. 

I cannot well be blamed upon this score: 
'Tis not my fault and that is much to say. 

Tales arc not, cither, now, as heretofore. 
Obliged to be original to pay ; 

And Publishers are pleased with any bore, 
And as contented quite as if a stray 

And lost Boccaccio sprung to modern light, 

Or if Cervantes left the tomb to write. 

If" Peregrine" or "Tom" appear'd but now, 

Or " Joseph" was but recently produced, 
Your Fieldings would be forced to make their bew, 

And quit the literary stage, reduced 
To keep some poultry, or a breeding sow. 

And serve as instances to be adduced. 
To warn real wits that such a vein as theirs 
Would leave but little to their hapless heirs. 

If Ariosto wrote — " quis ialiafando 

Of all real poets, woulil refrain from tears" 

And Harrington translated the Oilando, 

They'd find but few to lend their modern ears. 

And yet what better can the ablest man do, 
'Mongst all the nineteenth century reveres? 

Poor Southcy looks astonishingly small. 

In point of Fame, if he be famed at all. 

Rut as he writes to fill his precious pocket, 
'Tis not surprising that he writes so badly, 

And, for his style, so many strive to mock it. 
That none can wonder all should fail so sadly ; 

In truth he has nor style, nor wit to stock it, 
Although some giris devour his books so madly; 

Poor Boh ! 'tis hard one cannot prophesy, 

A scrap of reputu ion when you die. 



r^==J 



Mt'J A'1TU1«L'T1--1) fUKMS. 

But, let mc see, I had made up my mind 

To try a legend of the middle ages ; 
This vein has grown quite popular 1 find, 

Since Southey took to borrowing t^cott's pages. 
There's one thing gain'd in stories of this kind, 

One is not hamper'd by the precious sages, 
Who prose about their classic balderdash, 
And damn all verse but overstudied trash. 

The barbarism of Gothic ignorance 

Is illustrated in our every sound. 
When ruthless hardihood left lore to chance. 

And trampled ancient learning on the ground, 
We could not hope to wake, as from a trance. 

Endued with all the Isles of Greece had found 
Of beauty, symmetry, and eloquence, 
In nature, wrought by art the most intense. 

So let us be contented if we can, 

With something more akin to Gothic rhyme. 
About the period when those wars began, 

Which were deem'd sacred for their very crime. 
There lived a disinherited old man 

Who had possess'd some treasure in his time. 
And whose domain had been as broad and fair 
As any we might meet with here or there. 

The church had stripp'd him of his every acre : 
And most considerately so, I have no doubt 

That 't might be consecrated to the Maker ; 

Although some rumours which were spread about 

Were sadly detrimental to the taker; 

And as the lives and claims had not died out ; 

'Twas not conceal'd, the lands might yet be wreste 

From those by whom they were erewhile infested. 

The heir apparent' s grave preceptor was 

A worthy father of the sable hood. 
Who suffer'd no occasion e'er to pass, \ 

For forwarding the prospects of his brood : 
And, as young Roderic was the last, alas ! 

To represent the titles of his blood. 
The worthy friar seized the first occasion, 
To clear the coast by force or by persuasion. 

He spoke of glory, or a holy grave. 

Of conquest's realms, and vast domains and fame; 
lie primed him up with many a martial stave, 

And sung of heroes, and a deathless name; 
Ue named some soldier and liis lovely slave, 

And faiin'd the lover's with the hero's flame; 
Till llodrric, who was young asid ihereiore wild, 
Vow'd to depart — at wiiicli his Mentor smiled. 



ATTRIBUTKD POEMS. ' 501 

In vaiu two parents struggled to retain 
Th' adventurous little maniac from the field : 

A lovely sister held him back in vain, 

And kiss'd the hand by wliich she sadly kneel'd; 

In vain she sprung upon his neck again, 
And wept until her senses reel'd, 

And kiss'd his cheeks, and prattled out her prayer, 

N\ hilst there were wealth and eminence to share. 

For thus he fondly dreamt that it should be ; 

He was in this, like other boys, and saw, 
Admired, and courted any vanity. 

The veriest, paltry edifice of straw, 
Tims raised before him would have won his e'e, 

And struck him with the most respectful awe ; 
And all those splended castles in the air, 
He daily saw, seero'd wonderfully fair. 

So he departed with a martial throng 

Of knights and squires, and ragged vagabonds, 

And thieves and cut-throats, frail, and sick and strong :^ 
Just as a young apprentice oft absconds 

With some yoimg lady he had sijjli'd for long: 
And when he'd loosed all patrimonial bonds, 

And found himself his own unjjovern'd ixaster 

Those dazzling dreams came crowding in the faster. 

But truth, in blushing, is corapell'd to own 

That Roderic was early left behind ; 
His having join'd the army was not known 

For many days, before a man as blind 
As Love himself, and rough as any stone, — 

An ill-condition'd wretch as you might find, 
Was brought before our hero by a crone, 
(Juile old enough to play the c/uxperon. 

He flatter'd, fawn'd, and bow'd to Roderic, 
And praised his valour, person, gait, address, 

And parentage — and all, — though Arabic, 
Or such outlandish dialect, was less 

Ij'iiknowu to him, most likely: trick on trick 
Was plied, to make the silly youth confess ; 

The very knowledge that was used to prove 

His aged tempter's interest or love. 

Of .ill the youths who emulate renown. 
There's probably not one who can withstand 

The flattering notice, even of a clown ; 

And Roderic was, therefore, quite unmaun'd. 

He listcn'd to advice without a frown. 
And this is rare in boys, you understand. 

And at all times must be well larded over 

With flattery — that intellectual clover. 



502 ATTRIBUTED POEMS. 

Thus, when you wish to conquer, you nmst yield, 
And feign respect, before you can obtain it; 

The better your advantage is conceal'd. 
The more assured you ever arc to gain it. 

Tlie human heart is, bit by bit, unseal'd. 
And seai'd again. 'Tis easy to retain it, 

When you have gently closed it o'er the tie 

That binds it to your subtle agency. 

riush'd by this seer with brighter dreams than ever, 
Roderic would now have follow'd any where 

His Mentor led ; whilst he, too shrewd and clever, 
To close at once the promising affair, 

Excited his impatience to a fever, 

And dallied with him, bidding him prepare 

To undertake some daring enterprise. 

Whilst he went gathering soldiers and supplies. 

Few days elapsed before the seer returnM, 
Having collected no such mean array : 

For somehow, all the ablest soldiers yearn'd 
For something more like battalous affray. 

The sort of riot rout was what they spurn'd. 
And they got sick of marching day on day : 

So that the very sound of feats of daring 

Set all your brave adventurers preparing. 

They gather'd round the aged man to hear, 
And greedily devour his specious talc ; 

He told them, love, and wealth, and fame were near, 
And show'd young Roderic as the chief to hail. 

They met their youthful leader with a cheer, 
Nor deem'd they that an enterprise could fail, 

Conducted by such age and youth, combined 

\\ ith more of wisdom than we mostly find. 

The bearing of the youthful chieftain, too, — 
His noble carriage, and attractive mien 

Subdued the arrogant and haughty few, 
Who might disclaim a leader of sixteen. 

And won respect from those from whom 'twas due 
So that as nice a squad as e'er was seen 

Was very soon prejjared to take a start, 

And leave the coi-jis d'armee to do its part. 

Suffice 't to say, our hero's little band, 

Abandon'd their original cereer. 
And, marching o'er a sterile plain of sand, 

Halted at noon before the rarest cheer, 
H'er conjured by some satanisiic wand, 

At least, 'tis thus the fact will e'er appear 
For how the devil else the banquet came, 
Would puzzle them, or yoti, or me to name. 



ATTRIDUTKD POKMS. 503 

Ilowfi'cr this be, they fed, and laughed, and drank, 

And found the lir|uor so extremely good, 
Thai half of them loo prematurely sank, 

And soon ia sleeping dreamt of drink and food; 
And very early the surrounding iiank. 

With nearly all the glorious troiip was stnnv'd, 
Meanwhile— I can't teil how— ih.' ol.l man vanish'd 
And all the banquet was as quickly hanish'd. 
Young Roderic, and those who had withstood 
Too free indulgence in the strong potations, 
Were taken with a strange exi>loring mood, 

And started straight on their perambulations, 
It seems to me, that could the scene be view'd. 
It would remind you of those sweet collations 
Of spiders and hard eggs, in private parks. 
Called pic-nic parties by your modern sparks. 
They were attracted, in their lazy rambles. 

By peals of laughter from some neighbouring glade, 
For 'twas a forest. To defy the brambles. 

And reach the scene where many a merry maid. 
And half-arm'd youth were playing off their gambols, 

With somewhat less of decency display'd 
Than would have pleased our. Southey's squeamish taste, 
Or any lady very prim and chaste. 
1 do love decency not affectation, 

And had mucli rather see a silly girl 
riav her own part than ape an old relation; 
I'd rather see her unbound locks to curl 
All loosely round her neck, and dissipation - 

Flash satire from her eye against the churl 
Or cynic Spinster that would play the prude. 
Than feign to be so eminently good. 
If there were really magic in the case, 

There can he very little doubt, I ween, 
But magic drew our hero to this place. 

And wholly conjured this enchanting scene ; 
Those sorcerers arc a mighty cunning race, — 

And know how lads who ever have been green 
Are to be caught with pretty checks and dimples, 
And smiles and dances, and such other simples. 
So when they want to catch a handsome boy, 

They generally choose a pretty figure 
And dimpled cheek, to bait him with their toy : 

l»crhaii6 for Africans they'd have a nigger ; 
But in the north a face as dark as soy. 

And waist-band like a hoop, or somewhat bigger, 
Would barely wm a handsome errant knight 
To play Metioro and forget to fight. 



.')()» ATTRniUTKI) P0EM3» 

It wns in sii;nevvhat a resembling way, 

Tli:it secret agent spoken of above 
Led Roderic an(i his party thus astray, 

Reducing tbera I scarce dare say to love. 
For such it seem'd in that eventful day. 

Was likely to detain them in the " grave." 
They wonder'd long at the unwonted scene, 
Imagining, perhaps, they were unseen ; 

FJiit the dear creatures are not long to see 

When admiration turns the steady eye ; 
Tliere's nothing quicker than their vanity, 

And though they feign to blush and whisper " fie,* 
Tliere's nothing pleases them like flattery. 

The dancing ladies though by far too sly 
Ti) seem to notice their new stranger guests, 
Uecaine more lavish of their charms and jests. 

The interlopers step by step advanced. 

And more enchanting still the girls became 
And more voluptuous as they gaily danced. 

With much of grace, but very little shame ; 
Till suddenly a youth of their band glanced [flame,— 

Towards where young Roderic — who was worse than 
Kept drawing closer to his favourite fair one, 
As if determined at the least to share one. 
This was the signal for a rush to sirms : — 

The ladies feigning, for the time, to fly, — 
Ijecoming somewhat less profuse of charms. 

And falling to the rear stood calmly by, 
Whilst Roderic bow'd to quiet their alarms, 

And, like a valiant knight of chivalry, 
Stood courteously aloof, to give his foes 
Pull time to arm them, should they come to blows. 

As if he had been fifty years a knight. 

He then demanded as the price of peace, 
The lady whom he pointed out to sight ; 

She ogled Roderic to obtain release 
And feign'd to urge her champion to the fight, 

Although she heartily wish'd him deceased. 
Since handsome Roderic had so charm'd her sight, 
And had estranged her late affections quite. 
This cool demand was valiantly declined. 

So that both parties sprung upon their steeds. 
We had not thought of horses, as I find, 

'Till now ; so that the critic, as he reads, 
Will fiml this void exactly to his nund, 

Ami just the place tit number my disdeeds, 
(ii ioDseiy « riling, wiiii no i.ii()U;iht or rule, 
And iilaclvt'n i:i;.', I^i vvrii." Iiiinsclf n fViiil, 



ATlKlUUTbU l^OKMii. 505 

The truili is, had these horses been produced 

Upon ihc scene a little while before, 
Tliey iiad l)cen fodderlesbly introduced. 

And you'd have deeni'd tlieni but a sorry scoiei 
And pictured them as piteously reduced, 

Like tliat ot gallant lludibras of yore; 
And epic grandeur would thus dwindle down 
To some thing nicancr than a prince or crown. 

'Tis ridicule we all the most ablior; 

A right good reasun why a certain paper 
That moved my laughter, show'd itself so sore. 

Derision sutlers nothing to escape her, 
Tlial looks like overplenitudc in lore, 

And smiles most keenly upon those who ape her; 
And when a falsehood strives to shelter folly, 
Her every gibe becomes a rod of holly. 

Think'st thou not so, my able Public-thinker.' 
Hath she not well-nigh tickled thee to death; 

My little lying patchwork Folly-tinker? 

For God's sake spare thy little brains and breath, 

For thou art too comemptible to sink her: — 

And, when thou fcel'st the truth of what she saith, 

Strive to ameiid, but let not any see. 

Thou hait been nettled by her repartee. 

This <lrcad of the ridiculous withheld 

The earlier introduction of my horses, 
Which were as fine as ever you beheld. 

Nor were the worst pan of our hero's forces; 
And Kodtnc thought so, for he justly held 

These horses 'mongst the best of his resources, 
Perliapa as much for flcetncss as for mettle: 
Fur speed is sometimes the best means to settle. 

And foes were marshall'd, valiant mortal foes. 
With shield oi>posed to shield, and sjiear to spear. 

And all the ardour of the brave arose. 
As that terrific struggle drew more near: 

And twenty crests to twenty proudly rose, 
Dehi)ijiiig death and ridiculing fear. 

And calmly waving o'er the tranquil field, 

W here some should conquer and where some should yield, 

They look'd like pennons streaming o'er the sea, 
Tliat heaved beneath them with its silent threat, 

Spurnin- that threat with their seienity. 

Yet, when those bristling lances should have met 

And lie in splinters o'er mortality. 

Like these their useless wreck should pay the debt, 

That outraged powers demanded of their pride. 

To ^porl withal — neglect — despise — deride I 



506 ATTRIBUTED POEMS. 

And then the charge came clashing from each side, 
And shivering lances flew, and riders Mi, 

And horses reel'd a retrogading stride. — 
The ring of shields had struck the mournful knell 

Of four on Roderic's side, who bled and died, 
And one too brave and youthful damozel, 

Who proudly aim'd his emulative spear 

A I Roderic's crest, despising humbler gear. 

l)Ut Roderic's lance was shiver'd by the stroke: 
And, now he was assail'd on either hand, 

The battle with the chief became no joke. 
And as his horse could now but barely stand, 

And, as his treacherous sword moreover broke. 
He seized the nearest of the adverse band — 

Having alighted — dragged him also down, 

And sprang upon his charger as his own. 

He was but barely seated* when a blow 
Aim'd by no novice hand attain'd his crest, 

And forced it down upon his saddle bow; 
The ringing helmet yet withstood the test, 

And though he reel'd beneath the stroke, and though 
His head awhile hung senseless on his breast, 

A friendly hand opposed the exulting foe, 

And saved a second, and more fatal blow. 

Stung with discomfiture, and shame, and rage, 
As soon as he recover'd from the stun. 

He spurr'd his steed and flew to re-engage; 
The battle-axe that glitter'd in the sun, 

Seem'd to flash fire, and willing flames to wage 
The red destruction, as he fought and won : 

And every blow dealt senselessness or death, 

And rung victorious o'er the passing breath. 

Now to the right be whirl'd the flashing steel ; 

Now to the left opposed the faithful shield ; 
One moment saw a youthful warrior reel. 

And fall extended on the blood-stain'd field; 
Another saw our furious chieftain wheel. 

And stretch some veteran yet loath to yield 
A lifeless corse beneath his charger's hoof. 
Or crusli.the coward that withdrew aloof. 

Tiie fearful odds were thus reduced to par 
For, though, at first, his party sadly fail'd. 

Such is the strange and changing fate of war, 
That new in numbers, even they prevail'd ; 

And in successful bravery by far; 
For every adversary fairly quail'd, 

Before young Roderic's axe, and feebly struck, 

As if he durst not trust his arm or luck. 



,1— 



ATTRIBUTED P0E1I&. 'j\)J 

And Fortune, who's a shameless sycophant, 

Had well-niijh thrown herself in Uoderic s arms, 

To yield the prize her hands so often grant, 

And court the victor with her faithless charms; 

When — l5oh can tell yoii how — 1 really can't 

A hand of stalwart giant men-at-arms, 

Who had been somehow conjured or conceal'u 

Appear'd to recontest the well-fought field. 

Our fainting heroes sickcn'd at the sight, 

Their still more fainting foes rejuiced to see, 
But Uoderic was by far too proud for tlight; 

And ladies held the palm of victory, — 
Which is no small incentive to a knight ; 

And even they who would not hiush to flee 
Before a man alone; when women judge 
The honour of the field, would scorn to budge. 
The new assailants were the quaintest train, 

That ever figured in a strange romance — 
Tl.eir arms were rude, uncouth, grotesque and plain : 

Nor polish'd swords they bore, nor well poised Hauce, 
Cut ponderous axes, foul with many a stain. 

And clubs too, such as you or 1 by chance 
Might move — but handling is another question 
Which might not suit our strength or our digestion. 
Their height was, God Almighty knows how great. 

Their breadth was — oh, ah 1 somewhat like a stack ; 
They strode along at such prodigious rate. 

Ye'd scarce have caught them with a stag-hound pack i 
To have engaged such monsters separate, 

it sccm'd would need an army at one's back, 
But when they came down fifteen at a time. 
The fight became a mere aflfair of rhyme. 
'Tis very easy to relate the tale. 

And no way more improbable than are 
One half of those our novelists retail, 

Aid tell as acts of an authentic war; 
And, though the story's " somewhat like a whale," 

In prodigy 'twill not outdo by far 
The truth through microscopic Southey's medium: 
Nor, as I trust, oppress you with much tedium I 
The first that came, as if he meant to show otf. 

Began parading round his smaller foes; 
But Uoderic flung his axe and cut his toes oft, 

Whilst some one else deprived him of his nose: 
And as he could neither fight nor go otf, 

They managed to dispatch him with fe^ blows. 
Ami as his comrades came up ratln r laie, 
Ere they arrived, his trunk had lost its pam 



.=JJ 



fi= 



508 ATTRIBUTED POEMs. 

Exasperated at their comrade's fall, 

And little dreaming they would have to fight 

With such a lilliputian general, 
And fancying they'd vanquish him hy fright, 

The giants warn'd the youthful mareschal 
With horrid oaths that if he ventured flight, 

They would annihilate his steed and all. 

And eat their flesh by way of funeral. 

Now Roderic, who felt the fearful taunt 

And knew in truth how weak his party were, 

Natheless was not the boy a threat could daunt. 
And hade them capture and then eat their haie. 

That mode he said was taught him by his aunt. 
Who was an editress of dainty fare, 

And often with some wisdom had observed 

Tliat pluins are gather'd ere they are preserv'd. 

There is no telling whence an able mind, 

Such as was Roderic's may gather knowledge,- « 

And that too of a philosophic kind ; — 

And every scholar surely will acknowledge 

That what is useful of it to mankind, 
Is found in cookery as well as college : 

A hint worth knowing to that great Society, 

Who cram the young with wisdom to satiety. 

Some men seek wisdom in a spider's thread, — 
And some have found it in this simple way. 

As all will fairly own, who e'er have read 
A certain story of a certain day ; — 

Some find it in repentance, when they wed, 
And not uncommonly as many say, 

Roderic, }ou see, acquired it of his aunt. 

And none, my friend, wdl dare assert you can't. 

The pert reply which Roderic had made, 

Was quite enough to aggravate a saint — 
And giants are not ahtavs of that trade. 

And therefore do not practice such restraint. 
To it they went with knotted club to blade. 

With much of power but with little feint. 
Despising all the tricks of practised swordsmen, 
Or vantage that the art of arms affords men. 

The brave Ribaldo fell and mighty George 
Smash'd to a thousand atoms by Grimskalkin, 

VA'hilst Reginald made Pedagog disgorge 

Some precious feast indulged in with Grimalkin — 

A fsUow labourer at the Cyclop forge 

With hoots he might have tepp'd from Brest to Balkh in, 

And body next to which St. Paul's would look 

Much like this volume next some graver book. 



ATTO'in'TKn I'OKMO. 509 

Ami IJotlcrif all ihis winle ^\a^ twistiiij;. (tr.pii.g, 

Aiiiukiiic, |>iniiit.-ttiiiji here or lhv.tr. 
In I'act was iloiiig evcrytliing htit sleeping, 

Evading every Mow with wondrous care. 
And wlicii he h.id the chance fort^ver steeping, 

His sword in some fresh wound: — nor did lie spare 
His adversaries' legs, their hodies being, 
Within no reach for any thing l)ut seeing. 

The contest might have lasted out the day, 

But hy some sad mischance a cruel blow 
Streach'd our young chieftain on a bed of clay. 

And all the rest made of their heel and toe 
The common use with people in dismay ;— 

In fact, considering it time to go, 
I am ashamed to own they ran away, 
Leaving the giants with their helpless prey. 

And after all they were not very base : — 

They fought with no such flimsy bravery 
Until they found their's was % desperate case, 

And that, unaided by his gallantry, 
Their only ho))e of safety was their pace; — 

To lio them justice too they thought that he 
Was fairly kill'd, as any would have thought, 
Who saw with what an enemy he fought. 

Nor can we blame them, for the giants too 

Were so assured that Roderic was dead, 
That they ne'er took the pains to go and view 

What kind of wound it was from which he bled^ 
Nor had they time to think of those they slew 

Nor to pursue the recreant ones that fled, 
For they lamented many a lifeless friend, 
Kb^ ' id the wounded of their own to tenJ. 



NOTES. 



Notts to ®Jt ffitaottt. 

NoTK 1, p. 1. — The raa irial upon which the tale of the Giaoor 
IS founded, is more or less attributable to the adventure of Lord 
BjTon's own servant ; an adventure which directly implicated 
the noble author himself 

Note 2, p. 2. — A tomb, alleged to be the resting place of the 
great Themistocles. 

Note 3, p. 2. — The Persians have a current and popular notioi^, 
that the nightingale has a peculiar partiality for the rose. 

NoTB 4, p. 2. — Amongst the Greek sailors, the song and dance 
by night, accompanied by the tinkle of the guitar, fonn a favourite 
pastime. 

Note 5, p. 3. — There is infinite beauty and effect, though of 
a painful and almost oppressive character, in this extraoi'dinary 
passage ; in which the author has illustrated the beautiful, but 
still and melancholy aspect of the once busy and glorious shores 
of Greece, by an image more true, more mournful, and more ex- 
quisitely finished, than any that we can recollect in the whole 
compass of poetry. — Jeffeky. 

Note 6, p. 4. — At the period when this poem was written, 
Athens was in the hands of Kislar Aga, the eunuch-superinten- 
dent of the seraglio. 

Note 7, p. 6. — The reciter of the tale is a Turkish fisherman, 
who has been employed during the day in the gulf of Mgina, 
and in the evening, apprehensive of the Mainote pirates who 
infest the coast of Attica, lands with his boat in the harbour of 
Port Leone, the ancient Piraeus. He becomes the eye-witness of 
nearly all the incidents in tke story, and in one of them is a 
principal agent. It is to his feelings, and particularly to his 
religious prejudices, that we are indebted for some of the'»niost 
forcible and splendid parts of the poem. — George Ellis. 

Note 8, p, 5. — The word Giaour, (or infidel), is thus spelt by 
the Italians and by the Christians of the Levant. The English 
pronunciation is hardly so soft, and were better rendered by 
Djour. 

Note 9, p. 6. — A musket. The discharge of firo-arms Is the 
signal which summons the faithful Mussulman to his duties. 

NoTK 10, p. 6. — A species of javelin with a blunt point, which 
is liurlrd with unerring aim, from on horseback. 

NoTK 11. p. 6. — Everv gesture <if the iniiipLMOi;^ horseman is 
•"uU of anxiety and passion. In the midst of his career, whilst 



NOTES TO THB GIAOUR. 5! 1 

in full view of ihe astonished spectator, he suiiil-'iilv chocks his 
ilccd, and rising on his stirrups, surveys, with a lnok of agonising 
impatience, the distant city illuminated for the feast of Bairani ; 
then pale with anger, raises his arm, as if in menace of an invisible 
enemy ; but awakened from his trance of passion by the neighing 
of liis charger, again hurries forward, and disappears. — Georgb 
Kllis. 

NoTK 12, p. 7. — The wind peculiar to the deserts in tro))icftl 
climates, and in the east, which is known to blight animals a« 
ncll as vegetable productions. 

NoTK 13, p. 8. — The fact of having eaten at a Mohammedan's 
table, especially the use of salt. 

Note 14. p. 8. — The Mohammedans are proverbial for the 
exercise of charity and hospitality, which constitutes two cardinal 
virtues in their creed. Their proudest boast is to be distinguished 
for munificence ; and second to that, they pride themselves on 
their bravery and skill in the field. 

Note 15, p. 8. — This is a dagger of more than usual length, 
which is carried with the pistols iu the metal belt peculiar to the 
costume of the Turks. The material of the belt distinguishes the 
rank of the wearer. 

NoTK 16, p. 8. — 411 those who wear green in their costume, 
particularly in the cap or turban, are claimants to the honour of 
being descended from Mahomet himself. 

NoTK 17, p. 9. — This is a courteous address offered to disciples 
of Mahomet alone. 

Note 18, p. 9. — A butterfly with blue wings indigenous to Cash- 
mere, and especially remarkable for its beauty, and the brilliancy 
of its hue. 

Note 19, p. 10. — An allusion to thoahypothcsi s that the scor 
pion destroys itself when it turns its sting towards its head. 

Note 20, p. 10. — The salute at dusk closes at Khamazan. 

Note 21, p. 11. — The moon. 

Note 22, p. 11. — The ruby of the Sultan Giamschid, of fabu- 
lous celebrity. 

Note 23, p. 11. — Al-Sirat. This is the bridge over which the 
disciples of Mahomet arc taught to believe that they must pass to 
secure access to beatitude. 

Note 24, p. 11. — The houris, it is known, are the damsels 
whoso charms are to illustrate the eternal happiness of the faithful. 
The fable is in every way consistent •••ith the tastes, inclinations, 
nnil )>rcpossessions of Oriental climates and customs. 

Note 2.5, p. 11. — This is a mistake which has been commonly 
ndnptod by the Christians from want of a clear knowledge of the 
institution, or the creed cxpoun.-icd in the Koran. A fair portion 
of eternal bliss is a.ssigned to the gentler sex. 

Note 26, p. 11. — This is a metaphor peculiar to the cast 

Note 27, p. 11. — The Oriental bards are not singular in this 
idea ; it is constantly met with in the more ancient lore o' 
Grcocc. 

Note 28, p. 12. — Circassia. 

Note 29, p. 1.3. — This word is to be construed " In the name 
111' G<m1." The cxpres.sion is of almost constant recurrence In the 
K'Tiin. ard ;* ever repeated in a>l devotional passages. 

NoTf 30, p. 1.3 — This IS said to be more common with the 
iMii>i('nis in tlTcir wrath, than it would be believed to be in more 
«olK-r Kiiropc. 



512 NOTES TO 1 HE GIAOUR. 

Note 31, p. 13. — The word signifies forgiveness, or mercy. 

Note 32, p. 14. — This notion is prevalent wherever lalanilsin 
preiiominates. 

Note 33, p. 15. — The Shawls or Wrappers embroidered with 
ilowers, and distinctively worn by those of high riink. 

Note 34, p. 16. — An allusion to the passage in Holy Writ, re- 
fcniiig to the mother of Sisera. 

Note 35, p. 16. — This is a skull-cap which fomis the centre of 
■he turban, and which protrudes above the wrapping. 

Note 36, p. 16. — The sepulchre of the Osuianlies is invari- 
tbiy adorned with the special insignia of their calling, order, and 
creed. 

Note 37, p. 16. — This is the summons uttered by the Muezzin 
Ui congregate the faithful at the hour of devotion. The Muezzin 
r.r Oflicer, upon whom this duty devolves, stations )iimself for 
'his purpose upon the upper balcony surrt)unding the Minaret ct 
the ifosquc in Tihich he officiates. 

NoTK 38, p. 17. — The passage has a pavallcl in one of the 
Pinkish war songs. 

Note 39, p. 17. — To elucidate the allusion in this passage, it 
n eie as well to refer the reader to Sale's Koran. The suppositi- 
tious duties of the officers of Eternal Justice according to the 
Nioslem notions cannot be well iniderstood, without some insight 
.111(1 the peculiar tenor of their Religious Ceremonial, and into the 
ecccnti icilies of their creed 

Note 40, p. 17. — The Satan of the Mohammedans. 

Note 41, p. 17. — Tournefort D'Herbclot, and others, should be 
c<msidted on the subje(^ of many of the Oriental superstitions and 
f rejudiccs. There are many anecdotes which will be found il 
iislralive of this passage. %In fact it is not so dear but that Lord 
Byron borrowed this suggestion for Toorncl'ort, whom he has 
M.nuwhere quoted as his authority. We liave not been able \.o 
find any explanation of his own, however. 

NoNK 4i, p. 17. — An allusion to the received notion in the 
South-east of Europe, respecting the svmiitoms exhibited by those 
who hi'.vc been attacked by the Vampire, amoiig.sl tlie peasantry 
of those regions, the belief in the habits of that indescribable ani- 
auil. iind in the effects of its slrangenwrture. 

Note 43, p. 21. — An ahMsion to the current fable concerning 
ihe Pelican, 

NoTK 44, p. 24. — Lor<i Byron has afforded an interesting anec- 
iiote explanatory of the Oriental superstition of prophetic 01 
second hearing. This tale is the more remarkable, that he wai 
iioloriously sceptical on these subjects. 

Note 45, p. 28 — The Romaic word signifying "a Shroude* 
or " n Winding Sheet." 

Note 45, p. 29. — The story of the Giaour is not, as we have 
8. ready explained in the advertisement, without foundation in 
■act ; for Lord Byron had founded the incidents of his poem upon 
a local tale, which was current, in Turkey, and the substance o! 
which wus thoroughly w>l.nin the recollection of many living 
persons. 



MOTES TO THE imiDF. IV ABYDOfl. ri 1 3 



Notes to ^\)t ^xitiz of iabBUos. 

NoTK 1, p. 30. — The title of this pocin ap)iciir.s lohuvc aiTordcd 
Buine iTiHtcriul for cavil. Tlic " Briilc" is, in fact, a soincwiiat 
questiunuhic (li'iioniiiialion for the heroine. Bui the criticisin is 
nevcrthclcs.s, as unjust as the quibble is paltry ; for, after all, the 
question resolves ilseif nuTcly into oneof wonLsor iMterprctalions. 
The meaning romuins the iunie. 

NoTK 2. p. 30. — This ]iocm was first published ut the close ol 
the year lt>l3, al'icr but u very short lapse of time employed in 
its composition. Lord Byron was imiverbiully ranid in liis wri- 
ling, and this remark is especially applicable It the pieces he 
wrote about tiiis ju-riod. There appears lo have been a dreary 
sense of a want of something to busy him, and vrtYeiit his mine 
from brooiling over its sorrows, which gave birm lo some of his 
most brilliaiit poems. On the other hand, it was in writing these 
works from lime to time that he filled tlie void which seemed lo 
hang ubcMit him. They were thus the effect and the solace of 
his desolate satiety. Once in the vein for writing, lie ajipcars to 
have rattlc<l on, and coniiiletcd whatever work or portion he had 
'inderlaken, whilst the humour la.sted. 

NoTK 3, p. 30. — The Romaic word signilVing Hose, is 
" Gill." 

Note 4, p. 31. — The lloineos and Juliets of romance arc no 
such uncommon personages — Mejnoun and Leilu, we are told, 
are those who represent Sbakesperc's hero and heroine, in the 
Levant. Sadi is the bard and sage, or moralist, of Persia. 

Note 5, \k 32. — In Turkey, the three ))eriods of the day, the 
rising, zenith, and the selling of the sun, arc announced by the 
rolling oi' a drum bearing that designation. 

Note 6, p. 33. — There is no love lost between ihcschismalical 
tribes of Arabia and the Mussulmans of Turkey. Tax enmity 
which exists between these branches of llie followers of Mahomet 
is, in fact, more bitter than that which severs the Moslems from 
any other religious sect. 

NoTK 7, p. 34. — .^n allusion to one of the principal feudal 
vassals of I'urkcy. 

Note 8, p. Sii — The fatal warrant by which a subject of the 
Porte is eon.lemncd to death, by the prevailing instrument ol 
Atrxngiilatioii, is not always obeyed without resistance ; instances 
are not wanting in which the messenger who conveyed the order, 
or notice of condemnation, has been submitted lo the punishment 
by the culprit. In other cases, howcTer, the mandate is ivligi- 
Diisly obeyed. 

Note 9, p. W. — In Turkey the on.y method of calling 
Bttendanis, is by clapping the hands or stamping with the 
foot. 

NoTH 10, p. 36. — The prevalence of smoking has almost 
rniilired it unneccensary to translate the word " Chibotiqiie. 
I he Turks, Arabs, Persians, and the people of the Levant, geiir 
r.illy adopt this shajie of pipe only. It consists of a small bowl 
i(eiii rally of red clay ; hut in some caaes ot ivory, metal or other 
iiia.'crial adorned with jewels, and a long iherry tube, tipped with 
■< ;ound and attcnualing piece of aniber, which forms the mouth 



514 NOTES TO THE BKIDE OF ABYDUS. 

piece. There is frcquentlv a ring of gold, sometimes *et with 
jewels round the joint, bftween the amber and the stem. 

Note 11, p. 35. — The denomination by which the stipendiary 
troops in the Turkish service are distinguished. 

Note 12, p. 35. — This terra is applied to those to whom 
conduct of dangerous service is entrusted. They are generally 
engaged in the first charge, and are almost invariably placed ai 
the head of bodies of cavalry. 

NoTF 13, p. 35. — The Turks in sword practice protect them 
»elTes with a thick and tough covering, which is generally prof..< 
against any single blow. * 

Note 14, p. 35. — This is an ejaculation which is very preva- 
lent amongst the Turks, when they are excited either by sport or 
action. At other times their taciturnity is as proverbial as their 
indolence, if indeed ivhe not a part of it. 

Note 15, p. 36. — A scent in high favour in the Levant, and 
very generally used in Europe. Ottar of Hoses was, however, 
far more in use formerly than it is now. 

Note 16, p. 36. — The Mohammedans are particularly fond of 
decorating their walls and ceilings with dazzling views of Con- 
stantinople, in which the Chinese taste and judgment of art are 
most apparent. 

Note 17, p. 37. — " Azrael," amongst the Mohammedans is an 
impersonation of death. 

Note 18. p. 38. — An allusion to the traditionary antiquities 
of I he Sultans. 

Note 19, p. 38. — The " musselim" is an officer of the govern- 
ment, whose station is second to that of a Pacha. 

Note 20, p. 38. — The Turkish name for Negropont. The 
inhabitants of this province are despised like those of Athens. 

Note 21, p. 38. — " Tchocadar," an usher. 

Note 22, p. 41. — An allusion to the well-known story of 
hiitiquity. 

Note 23, p. 42 — Amber, like all resinous substances, may be 
quickened by friction : it is well known to be strongly charged 
with electricity by this operation, and emits a slight aroma. 
^^'llen burnt, the scent is very powerful and by no means dis- 
agreeable. 

Note 21, p. 42. — Amulets are deeply reverea by the Malinm- 
medans, who have the greatest confidence in their efficacy. It is 
by no means uncommon to see a small piece of some veuerulcd 
relic worn about the person, encased in gold and jewels. Ex 
\r;ii;ls iVoni their sacred writ are generally engraved on the case. 

Note 25, p. 43. — An appendage which may be held to repre- 
sent the Rosary of the Roman Catholics amongst the Moh.iui- 
tacdans. 

Note 26, p. 44. — The designation of a seaman amongst the 
Turks; by which also the person so called is distinguished from 
.lie Greek or other subject in the service. The description here 
^iven by Lord Byron is accurate enough. There are, however, a 
livv little additions which are attributable to the particular 
costume of some individual who personally served as the 
model. 

NoTir 27, p. 44. — The majority of the swords or seimitaj-s used 
by MobaaXTuedans bear some verse of the Koran te an inscrip 
'ion. 



NOTES lO TllK UUIi:h UK AUVUOS. 51,) 

NdTK 28, J). 4/" — Tlie Iradiliuns of llie Jews ure far frmu 
j< mi;; iii.kiiowii am.>'ig.si iH MobauinRduus. h is well l-uown 
•IkiI Muiioiiict liiiiiscif VI us > useful in iiDpiigiiiug ihu rcvtluliiiii ol 
li-.c Hebrew wril ; uiid llic rami: Iradilions ihtrcfore nppeiir in 
NSicMiiniuii Sacred Ilislory as in that of the Jews, witli lliis 
irilTcrttH-e only, that ihcy aic elolhed in other hihgiiage, and lliul 
llie names are adafJU^d lo iheir own famy it version. Zideika is 
llic name attributed lo rmii'li.ii s wile. The same ineuient a« 
llial related of her in the Old Testamenl has been reproduced 
wilh all the ln^tre of oriental imagery. 

Nort 2(1. i>. 45. — Au allusion to on p. of the insurgent vassuls 
who iielieii the uiinosi power of ihc government. 

NoTfc 30, p. 40 — This is the distinguishing pennon of a 
I'a' ha, vvli(»e rank and comroand are marked by this standard. 

Note 31, p. 4G. — Au allusion to one of those crimes or 
rniiiantic enterprises so common in the East. The victim in this 
in>tance was u Paelui of the name of Giaffir, of whom, as of the '' 
coincidence Lord Byron has given a detailed account. He had 
oie.i.^ion, at a latter period, lo know more of the hero and perpe- 
tr.ilor, who was no less a personage than Ali the Paeha of 
Albania. 

NoTB 32, p. 48. — When a Turk speaks of Ute Island or the 
Sea, he must be understood lo indicate the Archipelago, for 
bi yond that, few amongst his nation have any idea of insular 
co;lbrmation. 

Note 33, p. 49. — This passage alludes to one of the most re- 
m.irkable leaders ol the Greek rcvolus. Lord Byron, from the 
ii.liresl he took in the regeneration and independence of Greece, 
ami from his active participation in the struggle, had become in- 
liinilely acquai.lted with all the details of its history and hail had 
iH rasiou to meet with the principal personages who figured ia 
the tnclaucholy annals of the Morea before the battle of Nava 
riMo. 

,NoTB 34. p. 49. — .\mongsi the Turks, all those who are subject 
to the capitation tax, are distinguished by the denomination of 
" Kayahs." 

Note 35, p. 49. — .\n allusion to the peculiar habits and pre- 
possessions of Mohammedans. 

Note 36, p. 49. — Lord Byron has unnecessarily apologized for 
till! tenor of this p.lssa;.;e. It is perfectly true, not only of the 
ii'digenous population or wandeiing '.ribes of the East, but also 
• pI Europeans, who aie by accident or design, east into a similar 
c:ireer, lh.it the wilij and uncontrolled freedom of the broad ex- 
priusp of de.srri inspnes ihcm with a sjiccics of elevated spirit of 
iii<l('pei:il<'uci-. I'nere is ii i)leasure in the impressions which 
. ro«d upon the mind in such a situation, which none can pro- 
pel ly understand out lho;ic who have thoroughly entered into 
Ibis peculiar mode ol* life. 

Ndtk 87, 1>. 49. — One of the icmis signii'ying llie place of 
rt< rnal blj%.<. 

NoTH :W, p ft4.- The following passag- will be the most ex- 
pliinuloix of lb'' iilliisioii and we ilnrilore lake the libetly lo 
r\lracl it .i» it slu'i-is. " \N bib- the Siilscllc lay nfl' the Darda- 
ikIIuk, Lord Byron saw the body of a man who hail been cxeculcd 
bv being cast into me sea, floating on the stream to and fro *-ilii 
•iie irviiibliiiR of the water, which gave to iu arms the elTect ot 



616 NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 

soaring away several sea-fowl that were hovering to .devour 
This -.ncident has been strikingly depicted." — Galt. 

Note 89, p. 64 — The burial-place of Mohamtnedau women 
is left without any distinctive mark : that of the men is adorned 
with a sculptured turban above the iii<jcription (if there be !m>f). 
The inscription generally consists of dome of the most admired 
verses of the Koran. 

Note 40. p. 54. — The funeral chant uttered by the women 
The term " tilcnt ilavcs" is .applied tO tne male portion of sucb 
melancholy ceremonies, because it is one of the points oC delicacy 
amongst the Mohammedans not to oetray any emotion bcfoit 
strangers. 

Note 41, p. 66. — This passage wAl be better understood by 
referring to a note on the subject atiacbed to the " Pleasures of 
Memory." — It is an adaptation of a passage in oriental poetry. 

Note 42, p. 66. — This notion is peculiarly prevalent in the 
East, but it should be added, that it is by no means confined to 
those regions. We are not in our own country without many 
remarkable instances of similar cieiusions. There are some 
anecdotes illustrative of this question to be found in the Corres 
pondence of Horace Walpole, whose taste appears to have in- 
:liued him to seek out sucb, and sic:i!ar fantasies. 



:Nrotes to tht (!Dorsair. 

Not* I, p. 67. — This poem is another example of the facilit/ 
and fertility of Lord Byron's genius.. The beauty of his writing 
would almost appear to have been enhanced by rapidity; a phe- 
nomenon which is somewhat explained by the evidence borne by 
his poems themselves, that he wiotj from impulse and not from 
reflection. " The Corsair" was oegun and completed in the 
course of thirteen days, and at a period almost contemporary with 
the completion of the " Bride of Abydos." 

Note 2, p. 58. — It may not be superfluous to remind the 
reader of " The Corsair," that the Islands selected as the scene of 
this Utile drama are all of them but a short distance from one 
another and from the main land. There is therefore no inaccu- 
racy or anachronism in the quick succession of incidents as they 
aie related : — far from it : — to those who are well acquainted 
with the locality and the impetuous teniperaiiicnt of the people, 
they will appear but the more prooable and trutliful. 

Note 3, p. 62. — The author has been at some pains to excuse 
himself from having strained the privileges of poetry or fiction in 
drawing the character of -Conrad in this poem. And there can 
be no harm in adding the citations adduced by him from history 
in support ol' the poriraitnre pro iuced by his imagination. It 
aould i-ciin from the following (juotalion, that characters, no 
'.tss strange to the cvi'ryday iiCe ii!i-;.s of a London rt';nler, have 
<■ liiiilly )i|.;iir('(l in iciiity. 

" E(u.i.lin prisonnier,' dit lloijndini, " scnfernioit Jans 'in 
lilei.cc iiivna(;aiit ; ii fixnit sur la tern; son regard ferocc, ct ne 
'<iiiii:i!t (M.in*, (I'rsisDr a sa [ipifdnili,- iMil-^nation Do toules parte* 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIK. 517 

npendiuil les soMuts ct les pciiplcs accouroii-iit ; ils voiijoifiii 
»oir ccl hiiiiinie, jadis si puissant, et la joie uiiivc-rselle ecliituit c!t 
limlus paries. A* * * * * 

" Ei'celiii cloil il'iine pclitc taille : mais tout I'aspcct de sa per- 
Sonne luus scs miiuvcniens, indiquuicnt un soldiit Son langu'^c 
eti>il nuior, son deportenicnt supcrbc — ct par son stul regard, iJ 
fuisuit trembler les plus hardis." — Sismondi, tome ill. p. 219. 

NoTK 4, p. 09. — The phosphoric sparkling of the scaabcv.t iho 
prow, sides, and wake of a bout or vessel, or at each dip cf I'r.t 
ours, or break of the water, is perhaps far better known and more 
frequently obstrved in the Mediterranean and in more central 
latitudes than on our own coasts. It is, moreover, far more in- 
ti'use in brilliancy, owing to the dark and profound blue of 
the sky and water, upon which the flashing breaks like un 
aurora. 

Note 6, p. 71. — Coffee. 

Note 6, p. 71. — .\ Turkish pipe (.«ec note ante). ^ 

Note ^ p. 71. — Dancing girls. 

Note 8, p. 71. — There is an instance of a similar incident in 
history. It is recorJcd by Gibbon [Decline and Fall of Vie 
Roman Empire, vol vi , p. 180.) 

Note 9. p. 73. — The Dervises arc a class who resemble tlic 
monks of Roman Catholicism. 

Note 10, p. 74.— Satan. 

Note 11, p. 74, — A similar exhibition of wrath has more than 
once been historically recorded. 

Note 12, p. 76. — .\ woman's name. Almost all females names, 
in panicular amongst the people of the east, are words signifying 
binls, tlowcrs, scents, or other ornaments or luxuries which abound 
in their liyperbolical poetry. Gulnarc, means the blossom of the 
pomegranate. 

NoTK 13, p. 80. — Lord Byron appears to have alluded to the 
rase of Sir Thomas More and to that of Anna Boleyn. There are 
many other historical instances of similar buffoonery. 

Noi K 14, p. 83. — It is well known that the disciples of Socrates 
were very urgent with their great master not to swallow the poisor 
until after .sunset. The philosopher, nevertheless, obeyed the 
mauiiate of his condemnation, and took the potion before the sun 
went down. 

Note 15, p. 83. — The ftirtber we go towards the southward, 
ilie less the twilight, and the more equal the distribution of time 
!>• twcen night and day so that the winter's day is longer than that 
in our latitude, and the summers day is shorter. It is so in Greece 
(a> a matter of course) where the scene is laid. 

Note 16, p. 83. — The summcrhouscs of the Turks are called 
Ki".-ks. 

Note 17, p. 81. — See note antt. 

NoTK 18, p. 96. — It is the prevalent fashion in the SmI ts 
uilorn the bodiw of the dead with flowersi 



515 



NOTES TO LARA. 



Kote to Uara. 



Note J, p. 98. — There appears to have been no specific period 
or locality assigned to the incident related in the poem of Lara. 
Lord Byron at different times gave different accounts of his own 
arrangements of the scene, and contented himself with attributing 
entirvly to fiction, to avoid the inconsistency of some of theper- 
■ouages with the country and customs. 



Notes to tf)e Sbiege of QLoxintlt, 

NoTK 1, p. 126. — It sboula be observed that since T.ipolitza 
became the seat of the Pacha of the Province, Napoli di Bo. 
mania ceased to be the chief town in the Morea. Lord Byron 
had at various times overrun the whole of the Grecian provinces, 
and was well acquainted with all the roads and by roads, as well 
as with the towns of the Morea, of Attica, Albania, &c. &c. 

Note 2, p. 127. — An allusion to Dervioli, one of the Arnaouts, 
who had accompanied the author. He appears to have retired to 
the mountains, and to have raised the standard of revolt against 
the vice-royal government 

Note 3, p. 128. — See note ante. 

Note 4, p. 128. — The Turcomans resemble the Bedouin Arabs 
in their method of living. They are an erratic people — who 
wander from place to place, pitching their tents at convenience, 
and removing them at pleasure. 

Note 6, p. 129. — An allusion to Ali Coumourgi, who had 
driven the Venetians from the Morea, and who was afterwards 
killed atPeterwardcin. 

Note 6, p 186. — A description which has unfortunately but 
too much of reality. It is not at all uncommon for dead bodies 
to be observed floating on the Bosphorus The following quo- 
tation from Hobhouse's Travels will serve to attest the truth of 
the picture ; — " The«sensations produced by the state of the wea- 
ther, and leaving a comfortable cabin, were in unison with the 
impressions which we felt, when passing under the palace of the 
sultans and gazitig at the gloomy cypresses which rise above the 
walls, we saw two dogs gnawing a dead body." — Hobhouse. 

Note 7, p. 136. — The Mohammedans entertain a superstitious 
belief with respect to the tuft of hair worn by them, to the effect 
Chat it will serve as a handle to the prophet wherewithal to hoist 
them into the region of the Houris. 

Note 8, p. 139. — .■in allusion to the author's visits to Anneslej 
when a boy. 

Note 9, p. 143. — This passage refers to the occasion of an 
action by sea, which was fought at the mouth of the Dardanelles 
by the Turks against the Venetians. 

Note 9, p. 149. — The jackal is not known, in Europe. In 
all parts of Asia Minor, however, that animal abounds. Thev 



Ik:; 



NOTKii TO THK liIh.OK Uf CORINTH. i)]'J 

niiiki' ;iii evjd-cial ri'lroiil cilulil niiiK, ami Lord Hmoii has mlai)- 
UmI ihc ciiMliiie 111 iiiiiitlicr M>il, witliinil iimcli violalion lii ilsi 
hiiliiu The jackal is known to follow lioiiics of meti a:; llic 
(ca-birila follow a ship, lo secure wlialcver refuse may be ci « 
oi:.\. t 



2<rotes to ^arasinn. 

NoTK 1, p. 160. — The subject matter of this Poem was some- 
what too voluptuous for the precise but maudlin modesty of Lord 
Byron"s Critics The ostentatious prudery of the natiim almost 
»ct aside Parasina, and though far from an inferior work even for 
such an author, it has not been so generally known or noticed,, 
as many of the others. Lord Byron's Critics were in general 
envious', malignant opponents, anil they were very fond of twist- 
ing all his productions into immoral constructions : but the fact 
is, that the drift of the most condemned is quite the contrary. 
Il were just as fair to condemn "Joseph Andrews," as immora! 
in its tendency, as " Don Juan," or any poem of Lord Byron's 
The satire of vice can never be intrepreted into iu exaltation. 
Whether or not, " Parasina"* is open to more equivocal trans 
lation is another question But we are perfectly assured that the 
author never intended lo celebrate and eulogise a crime. 

Note 2, p. 156 — The word " haught" is very commonly used 
for " haughty," and more especially in the earlier writers of our 
language. It may be found in Spencer, Ben Jonson, Beaumont 
and Fletcher, Shakspere, &c. &c. 



Notes to t]^e prisoner of CDf)iUoiT. 

Note 1, p. 103— The Castle of Chillon which juts out into the 
lake of Geneva, on the north shore, and at the eastern end, is 
celebrated a« having been the prison of Fran9oi.s de Bonnivard 
the hero of Genevan independence. It is known that until the 
year 1535, Geneva was a dependency of the Dukedom of Savoy ; 
and ns by its situation, and for other reasons, it was a place o/ 
no mean importance, it was very jealously retained by the 
Princes of that House. On the other hand the Gcnevese enter- 
tained an hereditary hatred fur the Savoyards, and have continued 
• ince their emancipation to detest their former master*. The 
Gcnevese had made several efforts lo lil)eralc themselves from the 
vokc of the Duke of Savoy, and Bonnivard. who flourished just 
I:l 111.; period that the striipglc was assumir.g a -decided aspect, 
warmly participated in the contest, lie was not a Gcnevnu. Wni 
|..camt- pnssp.«sc<l of a wealthy bcnitiee at that place in I-'ilO. 
Ke was boni in 149(1, and ball been educated in the capital of 
Piedmont itself. All his ussoriiitions were more likely to have 
bound him to the iiilcrcsts of the Savoyard.. But a lofly spirit 



520 NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

nf indepemlence, Lhe purest iiilogii'j' and sense ol' justice, nnn im 
iiflVi-iionate regard for the people with whom ho had become iii- 
fi rporated, and wliose character at that period was congenial to 
th • enlightened and progressive intelligence of such a man, had 
completely enlisted him in the cause of the G.enevese. In 1519 
he became a prisoner on the oor.asicm of the occupation of Ge- 
neva by the Duke of Savoy. He w a.« nlosely confined for two 
years at Grolee, to which dungeon he had been despatched by the 
Duke. He afterwards contrived to effect his escape, but in 1530 
was once more betrayed into the hands of his enemies, and was 
sent a close prisoner to the vaults of the Castle of Chillon, whence 
he was finally liberated in 1636, when the people of Berne occu- 
pied the Canton of Vaud. Bonnivard, whose name is still held 
in high veneration by the Genevese, was not left unrewarded by 
the grateful towns-people. Upon his final reti.ni, when Geneva 
had already adopted the motto of "Post lenebras Lux," the 
country of his adoption had become protcstanl and free. He 
was provided with a handsome residence and pension, and 
became a member of the Republican Government. 

Note 2, p. 163. — An allusion to the effect which grief is re- 
ported to have had upon many eminent personages in history. 

Note 3, p, 166. — The Chateau de Chillon is situated between 
Clarens and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the 
Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and 
opposite are the heights of Meillerie and the range of Alps above 
Boveret and St. Gingo. Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent : 
below it, washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the 
depth of 800 feet, French measure : wi.hin it are a range of dun- 
geons, in which the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners 
of state, were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black 
with age, on which we were informed that the condemned were 
formerly executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, 
one being half merged in the wall ; vn some of these are rings for 
the fetters and the fettered : in the p^ivement the steps of Bonni- 
vard have left their traces. He was confined here several years. 
It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his 
Heloise, in the rescue of one of her children by Julie from ihe 
water; the shock of which, and the illness produced by the im- 
mersion, is the cause of her death. The chateau is lari^ic, 
and seen along the lake for a great distance. The walls nvc 
white 

Note 4, p. 170. — An allusion to a very small island which i." 
situated near Villeneuve. 

Note 6, p. 171. — " It has not been the purpose of Lord By nn 
to paint the peculiar character of Bonnivard The object of ihe 
poem, like that of .Sterne's celebrated sketch of the prisoner, is lo 
consider captivity in the abstract, and to mark its effects in 
gradually chilling the mental powers as it benumbs and freezes 
the animal frame, until the unfortunate victim becomes, asitwero 
a part of liis dungeon, and identified with his chains. 



NOTES TO MANFRED. 521 



Notes to i^nnfrcU. 

Note l,p. 172. — Lord l?yron, who treated Manfred some- 
what roldly, gives a hair-hiiniorous Nkelch of it in one of bit 
letters to Mr. Murray. The extract lias been published, and 
might serve as a species of rcfeicnce on the subject, but there is little 
itiforinution iu it wuieh may not be gathered from the work 
itself. 

The following are two extracts from the criticism of contem- 
porary writers on this strange but very beautiful production :— 

" In Manfred we recognise at once the gloom and potency of 
that soul which burned and blasted and fed upon itself, in Harold, 
and Conrad, and Lara — and which comes again in this piece, ^ 
more in sorrow than in anger — more proud, perhaps, and more 
nv\ ful than ever — but wiih the fiercer traits of its misanthropy 
suliilui-d, as it were, and quenched in the gloom of a deeper dcs- 
prindency. This piece is properly entitled a dramatic poem — for 
it is merely poetical, and is not at all a drama or play in the 
modern acceptation of the term. It has no action, no plot, and 
no characters; Manfred merely muses and suffers from the 
brginiiing to the end. Plis distresses are the same at the opening 
of the scene and at its closing, and the temper in which they are 
borne is the same. A hunter and a priest, and some domestics, 
are indeed introduced, but they have no connection with the 
passions or sufferings on which the interest depends ; and Man- 
fred is substantially alone throughout the whole piece. He holds 
communion but with the memory of the Being he had loved ; and 
the immortal Spirits whom he evokes to reproach with his misery, 
and their inability to relieve it. These unearthly beings approach 
nearer to the character of persons of the drama — but still they 
arc but choral accompaniments to the perfonnance ; and Man- 
fred is, in reality, the only aolor and sufferer on the scene. To 
delineate his character indeed — to render conceivable bis feelings 
^is plainly the whole scope and design of the poem : and the 
conception and execution are, in this respect, equally admirable. 
It is a grand and terrific vision of a being invested with super- 
human attributes, in order that he miiy bo capable of more than 
human .sufforing.s, and be Fustaincd under them by more than 
human force and pride." — Jr.TTfyy. 

" In this very extraordinary iioini, Lord Byrm has pursued 
ibc same course as in the tliini Canto of Childe Harold, and put 
out hi* strength upon the «iimo objects. The action is laid among 
ti.e mountains of the Alps — the characters are all, more or less, 
formed and swayed by the operations by the magnificent scenery 
around them, and every page of the poems teems with imagery 
and passion, though, at the same time, the mind of the poet is 
often overborne, as it were, by the strength and novelty of iti 
own conceptions. But there is a still more novel exhibition of 
Lord Byron'.s powers in this remarkable drama. He has here 
burst into the world of fjiirits ; and, in the wild delight with 
which the elements of nature seem to have inspired him, he has 
endcavourM to embody «nd call up before him their ministering 
■geota, and in employ these wild personifications, as he formerly 



522 NOTES TO MANFRKD. 

employed the feelings and passions of man." — FxtOFE<>soB 
Wilson. 

Note 2, p. 177. — The period at which these lines were written 
may explain the tenor of Lord Byron's thought .n writing them, 
and the allusion which they contain. It was just about the time 
that the final endeavour to reconcile the dispositions of his family 
had proved abortive, that the author abandoned himself to the 
peculiarly beautiful view of despondency, which is distinguishable 
in the colouring of all his finest productions. 

NoTK 3, p. 180. — See note ante. See also Clarendon's His- 
tory of the Rebellion for an account of Charies the First's 
appearance at Newport, in the Isle of Wight, when the negocia^ 
tion was commenced after his confinement in Carisbrooke Castle. 
Again, the memoir of " Marie Antoinette," &c. &c. 

Note 4, p. 180. — A sight not uncommon in Switzerland. 

Note 5, p. 180. — The mountains which Lord Byron ascended 
or visited in person. The allusion here, is specially directed to 
the Wengen, the Jungfrau, the Dent D'Argent, the Great and 
Little Giant, and the Wetterhoru. In this part of the mountains 
at particular seasons, the fall of Avalanches is of constant 
occurrence. 

Note 6, p. 180. — A sight peculiar to very mountainous regions, 
but not to Switzerland alone. The same effects, with the addi- 
tional splendour lent by a tropical sun, are observable in the 
Andes. But their is a peculiar appearance in the mist, as it rolls 
along the deep gulleys and ravines, and precipitate valleys of the 
Alps. Standing far above the cloud which mantles the plain 
below and yourself under the briglitest and most spotless summer 
sky, you look down, not upon a varied expanse of landscape in 
panoramic view, but upon an impenetrable ocean of vapour 
The sensation produced by this appearance is strange enough, 
you seem detached from the world, and planted alone upon your 
bright, but solitary elevation. 

Note 7, p. 183. — This is perfectly true of the appearance of 
an Alpine water fall, on a bright sunny day. The Stanbach has 
a constant rainbow at its base. The fine spray fluttering about 
is tinted with all the glowing hues of the pri.sm, and when you 
are actually in the midst of it, you still see it all around ■■•ou. 

Note 8, p. 183. — An allusion to the most striking objects 
about the Jungfrau. 

Note 9, p, 185. — Lord Byron here refers to Jamblius the phi- 
losopher, and adopts the anecdote told of him by Eunapius. 

Note 10, p. 187. — For the circumstances here alluded to, we 
must refer the reader to the following passage in Plutarch's Life 
of Cimon, (Langhokne's Plutarch, vol. iii. p. 279,) in which 
the story of Pausanias and Cleonice is detailed. — " It is related, 
that when Pausanias was at Byzantium, he cast his eyes upon 
a young virgin named Cleonice, of a noble family there, and in- 
sisted on having her ibr a mistress. The parents intimidated by 
bis power, ,were under the hard necessity of giving up their 
daughter. The young woman begged that the light might be 
taken out of his apartments, that she might go to his bed in se- 
crecy and silence When she entered he was asleep, and she 
unfortunately stumbled uj)on the caiidlostick and threw it down. 
The ncis'; T;-kcd him suddenij, Dr.d he, in his confusion, thiiikiii!; 
it (vss in eueniy -jcnrij'g, U 7jv»»«iu^te him, unshealhsd a d".i.'g<'J 



NOTES TO MANFRED. IjO?) 

ihat lay l>y him, an-l plungcJ it inio the virgin's heuii. After 
this he coulii never rest. Her iiimge appeared to him every i.iglit, 
iiid with a lucnaeiug tone repeated this heroic verse, — 

' Go to the fate which pride and lust prepare I' 

The allies, highly incensed at this infamous action, joined Ciuiou 
to besiege him in Ky/.antium. But he found uiean.s lo escape 
ikenee and as he was still haunted by the spectre, ho is said to 
nave applied to a temple at Heraclea, where the manes of tlie 
(lead -.vere consulted. There he involicd the sjiirit of Cleoni'j*, 
and entreale<l her pardon. She ajipcared, and (old him ' lie 
would soon be delivereil from all his troubles, ufttr his relurn to 
Sparta : in which, it seems, his death was cnigmalically foretold. 
'J'heye particulars we have from many hislorans." 

Note il,p. 188. — .\n allusion to some incident wliich occurred 
to Lord Byron on his approach to the Grindenwald. 

Note 12, p. 194. — Over this fine drama, a moral feeling hangs 
like a sombrous tliunder cloud. No other guilt but that so darkly 
shadowed out could have furnished so dreadful an illustration of 
the hideous abcnalions of human nature, however noble and majes- 
tic, when left a proy to its desires, its passions, and its imagina- 
lion. The beauty, at one time so innocently adored, is at last 
soiled, profaned, and violated. Afleclion, love, guilt, horror, re- 
morse, and death, come in terrible succession, yet all darkly 
linked together. We think of Astarte as young, beautiful, inno- 
cent — guilty — lost — murdered — buried — judged — pardoned ; but 
still, in her permitted visi* to earth, sneaking in a voice ol sorrow, 
and with a countenance yet pale with mortal trouble, ^^'e had 
but a glimpse of her in her beauty and innocence ; but, at last, 
ihe rises up before us in all the mortal silence of a ghost, with 
fixed, glazed, and passionless eyes, revealing death, judgment, 
and eternity. The moral breathes and burns in every word, — in 
sadness, misery, insanity, desolation, and death. The work is 
" instinct with spirit," — and in the agony and distraction, and all 
its dimly imagined causes, we behold, though broken up, con- 
fused, and shattered, the elements of a purer existence. — 
Wilson. 

Note 13, p. 196. — An allusion to the suicide of Oiho after his 
discomfiture at Brixellum. (See Plutarch'* Lives.) .Also the 
Elegy of Martial on luis event 

Note 14, p. 197. — An expression and sentiment which aboun.is 
in the lighter or in the more serious writings of Lord li\ ron. 
That he was haun'xd by a dreary sense of desolation, is evident 
from some, even of the earliest fragments which he has left to the 
world. His kind of intellect was not easily satisfied ~'<\ ith ordi- 
nary society ; there was nothing c,ongenial in the cvery-day 
converse of the world, so that he was driven to brood within him- 
self, and as he couid find no real associate beyond the pale of 
his own imagination, it is not to be wondered at, if he gave evi- 
dence of a desolate species of being. 

Note 15, p. 198. — Lord Byron has fairly acknowledged, that, 
although he began by bciiig sceptical on the subject of the im- 
mortality of the soul, he was cured of that secptism. There U 
theriTiire an inconsistency between some expressions in his ear- 
lier writings and this, but tlie inconsistency is one which is occa- 
aioncd by an avowed change of opinion. 



524 NOTES TO MANFRED. 

Note 16, p. 198. — There are three only, eren among tlic ^rea. 
poets «)f modern times, who have chosen to depict, m then full 
shape an'' "igour, those agonies to which gieat and meditative 
intellects are, in the present progress of human history, exposed 
by the eternal recurrence of a deep and discontented scepliim. 
But there is only one who has dared to represent himself as the 
victim of those nameless and undefinable sufferings. Goethe 
chose for his doubts and his darkness the terrible disguise of the 
mysterious Faustus. Schiller with still greater boldness, planted 
the same anguish in the restless, haughty, and heroic bosom of 
Wallenstien. But Byron has sought no external symbol in 
which to embody the inquietudes of his soul. He takes the world, 
«nd all that it inherits, for his arena and his spectators ; and he 
displays himself before their gaze, wrestling unceasingly and in • 
effectually with the demon that torments him. At times, there is 
something mournful and depressing in his scepticism ; but oitener 
' it is of a high and solemn character, approacfling to the very verge 
of a confiding faith. Whatever the poet may believe, we, his 
readers, always feel ourselves too much ennobled and elevated, 
even by his melancholy, not to be confirmed in our own belief by 
the very doubts so majestically conceived and uttered. His scepti- 
cism, if it ever approaches to a creed, carrfes with it its refutation 
in its grandeur. There is neither philosophy nor religion in those 
bitter and savage taunts which have been cruelly thrown out, from 
many quarters, against those moods of mind which are involun- 
tary, and will not pass away ; the shadows and spectres which 
still haunt his imagination may once have disturbed our own ; — 
through his gloom their are frequent flashes of illumination ; — and 
the sublime sadness which to him is breathed from the mysteries 
of mortal existence, is always joined with a longing after immor- 
tality, and expressed in language that is itself divine. — Wilson. 

Note 17, p. 198. — An allusion to the matter of the second and 
fourth verses of the sixth chapter of Genesis. — " And it came to 
pass that the Sons of God saw the daughters of men, and they 
were fair." — "There were giants in the earth in those dajs ; and 
also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the daughters 
of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty 
men, which were of old, men of renown." 

Note 18, p. 201. — "But what can I say of the Coliseum? it 
must be teen : to describe it I should have thought impossible, if 
I had not read ' Manfred." To see it aright, as the Poet of the 
North tells us of the fair Melrose, one ' must see it by the pale 
mooniight.' The stillness of night, the whispering, echoes, the 
moonlight shadows, and the awful grandeur of the impending 
ruins, form a scene of romantic sublimity, such as Byron alcna 
could describe as it deserves. !Elis description is the very thing 
itself." — Matthews's Diary of an Invalid. 



NOTES T(J CAIN. 525 



Notes to (£ain 



N<)TK I, p. 206. — That the Old Tcslanient contains repeated 
passujjes, \vhii;h ilircclly alliuie lo a future beiiij;, is incontestable 
ami it is as certain also lliat the ilnri of the wliole history of 
Alirsliam and iiis descendants bears a similar interpretation. So 
constant, in fact, and so often reiterated, are the positive iiidico- 
ti.'Hs of luturity, that it were quite supererogatory lo cite any 
heie. 

Note 2, p. 207. — "Prayer," said Lord Byron, at Cephalonia 
'• does not i-.iiisist in the act ol' kneeing, nor in repeating certain 
words in a solemn manner. Devotion is the direction of the 
heart, arni ihis 1 feel ; for when I view liic woD''ers of creation, 
1 buw to liic luajesty of heaven : and when I feel the enjoyment 
of lilc, heallli, and happiness, I feel j;r.ttfcfid to God for having 
besiowtd these upon nie." — KKXNfDv's Convi.rsalions, p. 135. 

NoTK 3, p. 207. — This passage affords a key to i!ie temper and 
fraras of mind of Cain throughout llie piece. He disdains the 
liniiteil e.\istencc allottcil to him ; he has a rooted honor of death, 
attended with a vehement curiosity as lo his nature; and he nou. 
nshes a sullen ongor against his parents, to whose misconduct he 
ascribes his degraded state. Added to this, he has an insatiable 
thirst for knowledge heyouii the bouiuls prescribed to mortality; 
and this pa.-t of the poem bears a strong resemblance lo Manfred, 
whose counterpart, indeed, in the main points of character, Cain 
seems to be. — Camphell. 

NoTK 4, p. 207. — Cain's description of the approach of Luci- 
fer would have shone in the " Paradi.se Lost." There is some- 
thing spiritually fnie in this conception of the terror of presenti- 
ment of coming evil. — Jei'krei'. 

Note 5, p. 210. — " In this long dialogue, the tempter tells 
Cain (who is thus far supposed to be ignorant of the fad) that the 
sold is immortal, and that ".souls who dare use their immortality" 
are condemned by God to be wrctcheil everlastingly. This senti- 
ment, which is the pervading moral (if we may call it so) of the 
play, is developed in the lines which follow." — liEiiEn. The 
criticism is neither true nor just, and Lord Byron repudiates the 
inuendo with great reason. It were absiu-d to represent Cain and 
Satan like two archangels of light. 

Note 6, p. 211. — The tree of life was doubtless a materia! tree, 
producing material fruit, proper as such for the nourishment of 
the body ; but was it not aUo set apart to be partaken of as • 
symbol or sacrament of that i <lestial principle which nourishes 
the soul to immortality ? — Bishop Horne. 

Note 7, p. 213. — It may appear a very prosaic, but it is cer- 
tainly obvious criticism on these passages, that the young family 
of mankind had, long ere this, been ipiitc familiar with the death 
of animal* — some of whom Abel was in the habit of offering np 
as sacriScci ; so that it is not quite conceivable tliat they should 
be so much at a loss to conjecture what death was. — Jkpprkv. 

Note 8, p. 226. — It is not very easy to perceive ■what natural 
or ratonal object the Devil proposes to himself in carrying his 
dik^iplc through the abyss of spa^ c to show him that repository 



526 NOTES TO CAIN. 

'of which we remember hearing something in our infant days 
" where ihe old moons are hung up to dry." To p»ove that there 
is a life beyond the grave, was surely no part of his business when 
he was engaged in fostering the indignation of one who repined 
at the necessity of dying. And, though it would seem, that entire 
Hades is, in Lord Byron's picture, a place of suffering, yet, when 
Lucifer himself had promised that these sufferings were the lot of 
those spirits who had sided with him against Jehovah, is it likely 
that a more accurate Inowledge of them would increase Cain's 
eagerness for the alliance, or that he would not rather have in- 
quired whether a better fortune did not await the adherents of 
tine triumphant side ? At all events, the spectacle of many ruined 
worlds was more likely to awe a mortal into submission, than to 
rouse him to hopeless resistance ; and, even it' it made him a 
hater of God, had no natural tendency to render him furious 
against a brother who was to be his fellow-sufferer. — Heber. 

Note 9, p. 227. — " Death, the last and most dreadful of all 
evils, is 80 far from being one, that it is the infallible oiue for all 
others — 

' To die, is landing on some silent shore 
Where billows never beat, nor tempests roar : 
Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er. 

But was it an evil ever so great, it could not be remedied but by 
one much greater, which is, by living for ever ; by wTiich means 
our wickedness, unrestrained by the prospect of a future state, 
would grow so insupportable, our sufferings so intolerable by per- 
severance, and our pleasures so tiresome by repetition, that no 
being in the universe could be so completely miserable as a spe- 
cies of immortal men. We have no reason, therefore, to look 
upon death as an evil, or to fear it as a punishment, even without 
any supposition of a future life : but if we consider it as a passage 
to a more perfect state, or a remove only in an eternal succession 
of still improving states (for which we have the strongest reasons), 
it will then appear a new favour from the divine munificence ; 
and a man must be as absurd to repine at dying, as a traveller 
would be who proposed to himself a delightful tour through 
various unknown countries, to lament that he cannot take up his 
residence at the first dirty inn which he baits at on the load. 
The instability of human life, or of the changes of its successive 
periods, of which we so ^requantly complain, are no more than 
the necessary progress of it to this necessary conclusion ; and are 
»o far from being evils deserving these complaints, that they are 
the source of our greatest pleasures, as they are the source of all 
novelty, from which our greatest pleasures are ever derived. The 
continual successions of seasons in the human life, by daily pre- 
senting to us new scenes, render it agreeable, and, like those of 
the year, afford us delights by their change, which the choicest of 
them could not give us by their continuance. In the spring of 
life, the gilding of the sunshine, the verdure of the fields, and 
the variegated paintings of the sky, ai'c so exquisite in the eyes of 
infants at their first looking abroad into a new world, as nothing 
perhaps afterwards can equal. The heat and vigour of the suc- 
ceeding summer of youth ripen for us new pleasures, — the 
blooming maid, the nightly revel, and the jovial chase : theserene 
autumn of complete manhood feasts us with the golden harvest 



NOTES TO CAIN. 527 

of our worldly jiursuiis ; nor is the hoary winter of old age de*. 
Ulute oi ils peculiur comforts ami enjoynienls, of which the recoU 
Ici'lioii ami iclalion of those past are ptrhaps none of the least ; 
and ul labl death opcDs to us a ucw jiro^pect, from whence ve 
bhidl probably look back upon the diversions and occupations o/ 
this world with the same contempt we do now on our tops and 
hobby-hor.ses, and with the same surprise that they could ever m 
much entertain or cnRage us." — Jhnyns. — -'These," Bays Ht, 
Johnson, " are scntimenls which, ihotigh not new, tnay be read 
with pUattire aini j>roJil, in the Ihousajidth repetition." 

NoTK 10, p. 22ti. — A speculation of Lord Byron's, which is 
not without much of reason, although it might be sneered at by 
the over accurate men of science ou the one hand, as by Jie 
straight-laced mniions of orliiodoxy on the other. There is at 
least this comfort in adc:iiiing the origin of mankind as it is re> 
corded in Genesis, that it saves one the trouble of an endless and 
profitless research. And, after all, the matter is not of the re- 
motest consequence to mankind. One hypothesis is just as good as ' 
another. The only difl'crence is, thai some are more consoling 
and satisfactory than others. The whole matter, after all, resolves 
itself into the idea which has always prevailed, and which alone 
is accommodated to the intelligence of man, that the world (our 
world), in its present construction, had a beginning ; and that 
the simplest way of accounting for its origin (apart from any im 
pcraiive dogma or revelation,) is to attribute it at once to the 
master hand of a Creator. 

Note II. p. 830. — Hades is a place, in Lord Byron's descrip- 
tion, very difl'erent from all that we had anticipated. He supposes 
that the world which we now inhabit had been preceded by many 
successive worlds, which had each, in turn, been created and 
ruined ; and Uie inhabitants of which he describes, on grounds 
suUicicntly probable for piittry, a.s proportioned, in bodily and 
Inuliectual strength, to those gigantic specimens of animal exis- 
tence whose remains still perplex the naturalist. But he nut only 
places the prc-Adamite giants in Hades, but the ghosts of the 
Mammoth and Megatherian, their contemporaries, and, above all, 
the j>hanlom.'5 of the worlds themselves which these beings inha- 
bited, will) their mountains, oceans, and forests, all gloomy and 
had logetlier, and, (we suppose he means) in a state of eternal 
su/lering. We really tliiuk tiiat this belongs to that species of 
Mibiimc, which is considerably less than a single step r<<iuoved 
fioin the ridiculous. — Uebek. 

NoTK 12, p. 137. — " It would be to no purpose to suppose tw» 
such <>i)positc principles. For, admit that a being infiriitely mis- 
cliicvous were infinitely cunning, and infinitely ]iowcrful, yet it 
could do no evil, because the o]iposite principle, of infinite goud- 
lun.i, being al.so infinitely wIm; and powerful, they would tie up 
one another's hands : so that upon this supposition, the notion of i. 
deity would signify just nothing; and, by virtue of eternal oppo- 
sition and equality of these principles, they would keep one an- 
oiliiT at perpetual bay; and, being an equal match for one another, 
instead of being two deities, they would be two idols, able to do 
lu'ithcr good nor evil." — Tillotson. 

NoTK 18. p. 238. — " Whatever we enjoy is purely a free gift 
I'n'ui 'lur Creator ; but that we enjoy no more, ran never, sure, 
'm. deemed an injury, or a just renron to Question bis infinil* b» 



r)28 NOTES lO CAIN. 

nerolence. All our happiness is owing to his goodness ; but that 
it is no greater, is owing only to ourselves: that is, to our not 
having any inherent right to any happiness, or even to any exis- 
tence at all." — Jenyns. 

NoTK 14, p. 2S1. — The names of the rivers which endoseil tha 
"jion of man's first purity and happiness. 



Kotes to tf^t flours of Bleiuss. 

Note 1, p. 254. — The Earl of Carlisle is here indicated. 

Note 2, p. 254. — See Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. viii,, 
p. 91. London : 1835. 

Note 3, p. 265. — This piece is addressed to Lord Delawarr. 

Note 4, p. 265. — Lord Byron had a peculiar antipathy to 
elaborate inscriptions and pompous sepulchres, from his earliest 
years. He always indicated his wish that whoever perfonned 
the last duties for himself would be as brief and simple as possible 
in marking his final resting-place. He left directions of the same 
kind in a wih. 

Note 5, p. 266.-' — The antiquity of Newstead Abbey is un- 
doubted. It dates baok to the latter end of the twelfth century, 
and passed from its monastic possessions into the hands of Lord 
Byron's ancestors at the period when all establishments of the 
kind were- wrested from ecclesiastical corporations. 

Note 6, p. 266. — The part taken in the Holy Wars by the an- 
cestors of Lord Byron is more than problematical — if indeed it be 
more than a piece of family tradition : they, at least, attained no 
historical celebrity, and the name docs not appear very piomi- 
nently until much later in the records of this country itself. Mr. 
Moore has endeavoured to account for it, by explaining some 
piece of decorations in Newstead Abbey. But it must bo borne 
in mind either that this symbol is of modern construction, or that 
it had no connection whatever with the family of the author, who 
did not become possessors of the Abbey until the reign of Henry 
VIII., if not later. 

Note 7, p. 256. — " In the park of Horseley, there was a cas- 
tle, some of the ruins of which are yet visible, called Horistan 
Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de Burun's .suc- 
cessors." — Thoroton. 

Note 8, p. 266. — Some of the ancestors of Lord Byron are 
recorded to have served at the seige of Calais, temp. Edward III. 
M well as at Cressy. 

Note 9 p. 256. — The field of Marstou Moor, so fatal to the 
royalists in the civil wars. 

Note 10, p. 256. — See Clarendon's History of the BeleU 
lion. 

Note 11, p. 266. — See the same; in which Sir Nicholas By- 
ron is frequently mentioned with honour amongst the most zea- 
lous parti/.aiis of Charles I. 

NoTB 12. p. 257. — This piece as well as some ethers which 



.— ^ 



NOTES TO TnE HOURS OF IDLENESS. 029 

•re inserted hero, appears to have been written during Lord 
Byron's pupilage, at Harrow; hut whether. u a portion of his class- 
work or not. is not apparent. 

Note i:!, p. 237. — An allusion to the seeming inequality in th« 
fate of individuals. 

XoTK 14, p. 261. — Lord Byron somewhere relates that some of hij 
earliest cdusions in the shape of school exercises, were not by any 
means flatteringly received by Dr. Drury, then head master at Har- 
row. Tho reason it would scorn was, that most of these written 
aKiiinst the inclination and a.s tasks, and it must be admitted, that 
It was not until tho publication of "English Bard.s and Scotch 
Ueviewers" that he had signalised his pre-eminent talents. No one 
dreamt of his becoming an illustrious Poet during his school career. 

.N'OTB 15, p. 261. — Lord Byrou took ^eat delight in tho transla- 
tions of the minor works of Camoens published by Lord Strangford 
about this period. 

Note 16, p. 261. — " Tho latter years of Camol'ns present a. 
mournful picture, not merely of individu.al calamity, but of 
national ingratitude. He whose best years had been devoted to 
the service of his '•ountry, he who had taught her literary fame to 
rival tho proudest efforts of Italy itself, and who seemed born to 
revive the remembrance of ancient gentility and Lusian heroism, 
was compelled to wander through the streets, a wretched dependent 
on casual contribution. One friend alone remained to smooth 
hiii downward path, and guide his steps to the grave with gentle- 
ness and consolation. It was Antonia, his slave, a native of Java, 
who h.-ul accompanied Camoens to Kurope, after having rescued 
hira from tho waves, when shipwrecked at the mouth of tho 
Mecon. This faithful attendant was wont to seek alms throughout 
l..isbon, and at night shared the produce of the day with his poor 
and broken-hearted master. But his friendship was employed in 
vain. Camoens sank beneath the pressure of penury and disease, 
and died in an alms-house early in the year 1097." — Strangford. 

Note 17, p. 262. — The Duke of Dor.sot, who was killed whilst 
bunting in Ireland. IIo waua thrown from his horse and did not 
long survive the accident. 

Note 18, p. 262. — An allusion to the fagging system at public 
schools. 

Note 19, p. 262. — It does not appear that the remark is levelled at 
any person in particular. 

Note 20, p. 26.3. — " Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was bom 
lln 1527. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy 
of ' Oorboduc,' which was played before the Queen Elizabeth at 
AVhItchall in 1561. His tragedy, and his contribution of tho Indu> 
tion and Legend of tho Duke of Buckingham to tho ' Jlirror for 
.Magistrates,' comprise the poetical history of Sackville. The rest cf 
it was poetical. In 1604, ho was created Earl of Dorset by James I. 
lie died suddenly at tho council table, in conscqucnco of a dropsy 
on tho brain." — Campbell. 

Note 21, p. 203. — Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, who flourished 
temp. Charles IT. ami William III. and who was as remarkable for 
bis valour, as for his talent, taste, and patronage of literature. See 
till' casual pooms of Drydcn, I'rior, Pope, Congreve, and otiiors of 
tliat jK'riod. 



530 NOTES TO THE HOURS OP IDLENESS. 

Note 22, p. 264. — Suggested by the receipt of intelligeme report 
ing the death of the youHg Duke of Dorset, who had been one ol 
Lord Byron's most constant and attached associates. 

Note 23, p. 26-1. — An allusion to the "Devil on two Sticks," — the 
*'Diable Bolteux," one of the clcTer satires of Le Sage. 

Note 24, p. 264. — Referring to the candidates who appeared to 
contest the election for ihe University of Cambridge after the death 
of Pitt. I/ord Henry Petty, and Lord Palmerston were the persona. 

Note 25, p. 265. — Edward Harvey, third Lord Hawke. 

Note 26, p. 265. — Alluding to the criticism on Greek metres, by 
£eale. 

Note 27, p. 265. — A very fair satire on the spurious Latin ot 
schoolmen. 

Note 28, p. 265. — The discovery of the fact illustrated by the forty- 
eeventh Proposition of the first book of Euclid, which has been 
attributed to Pythagoras. 

Note 29, p. 266. — Alluding to the chapel-gown worn by the boys 
on saints'-days. 

Note 30, p. 267. — Lord Byron's character was as fervid and im- 
petuous in his boyhood as it ever was — a thing which is well illus- 
trated by the warmth and brevity of his school associations. Ho 
generally spoke of them afterwards to this effect. 

Note 31, p. 267. — Referring to his pugilistic success at Harrow. 

Note 32, p. 267. — To this day, one of the tombs in the church- 
yard at Harrow is pointed out, as having been Lord Byron's 
favourite retreat. Here, with the beautiful view to the south-west- 
ward, and with Windsor in the distance before him would he sit for 
hours indulging the meditative inclinations. 

Note 33, p. 267. — He was remarkably fond of selecting 
pieces of passionate vehemence for declamation on the Speech 
Days. 

Note 34, p. 267. — The person indicated, is Mossop, who was con- 
temporary on the stage with GarricK. 

Note 35, p. 267. — Dr. Drury appears to have had more idea of Lord 
Byron's declamatory powers than of his literary abilities. Lord 
Byron himself mentions the fact with something approaching to 
a gentle sarcasm on Dr. Drury's lack of judgment. 

Note 36, p. 269. — There is a proverb in Spanish, of which this is 
an accurate paraphrase or rather translation. 

Note 37, p. 269. — Lord Byron refers to one of those casual and 
equivocal attachments, of which there were many in his youth. 
It has not been transpired who the heroine was, but enough has 
been gathered to determine that her station and circumstances 
subjected her to some scandal in her intercourse with a young 
peer. 

Note 38, p. 271. — TheJegal denomination of a person Tinder ago 
^a minor. 

Note 39, p. 274. — The pibroch is not the instrument, as here indi- 
cated, but the air which is such a favourite amongst the bagpipe 
players of Scotland. 

Note 40, p. 278. — An allusion to a fete amongst the High- 
landers. 

Note 41, p. 284. — Creusa, who perished in the conflagration of 
Troy. 



NOTKS TO TIIK HOtinS OP IDT.ENKSS. 5.S I 

Note i2, p. 259.— The fable of Medea and Jason is far ton well 
known U> need unioiudycrsion here. Tliis is a trunsliUion of one 
of till' Chorusis in a culcbrated play of Eurijiidcs; and althouslj 
It bo Correct as a paraphrase, it is rather that than a translatiou. 

NotE 43, p. 290. — Kcfer to the passage in the orip;iuaI. 

Note 44, p. 290. — The intention of this piece is not to censurij ;h» 
person, but the office. 

NoiB 45, p. -90. — Alluding to Demosthenes. 

Note 4t"., p. 2yl. — An allu.«iou to the denomination of the . enl 
tarief, who act as supervisors of the Chapels at the Universitj-. 

Note 47, p. 293. — An allusion to his participation in several pri- 
vate Theatrical performances, which lie has recorded as so many 
boyi.sh triuuiplis. 

Note 4S, p. 294. — The fragment to which Lord Byron replied 
through the medium of the Morning Chronicle, had been published 
in the columns of the Morning Post. 

Note 49, p. 295. — Harrow. 

Note 50, p. 296. — ()ne of the most lofty and strikingly beautiful 
of the mountains of Scotland. Lord Byron's residence in the 
niighbourhood during his childhood bad furnished him with some 
pleasing and wild recollections on the subject. 

Note 51, p. 290. — The Scotch are not so fond of perverting the 
pronunciation of their words as the English; the word in Scotch is 
pronounced as it is spelt. 

Note 52, p. 290. — It is well known that Lord Byron was de- 
scended, through his mother's family, from the branch of the house 
of Oordon, which by marriage had become connected with the royal 
race of Stuart. The tiordona were, many of them, among.^t the 
most ze.'ilous atlherents of that ill-fated family after its llnal expul- 
sion from Ureat Britain, and were involved in the luckless campaign 
of 1745. 

Note 04, p. 296. — It is merely by conjecture, or by poetical ana- 
logy, that Lord Byron attributes to some of his forefathers a grave 
on Cullodeu Muir. 

Note 54, p. 290.— A part of the highlands of Scotland. 

Note 65, p. 297.— An allusion to the liibulous fiiend.ship of 
anticiuity. 

Note 60, p. 298. — Alluding to Sir. Bcchcr, who signalised himself 
\t\ several projects for the improvement of the condition of the 
working classes. 

Note 57, p. 299. — This is the second pieco on the same sub- 
ject. 

Note 58, p. 299. — An itll'ision to the foundation cf the Priory of 
Newstead by Henry II., «TiicU was one of his acts of amends ffa 
the osMuisination of Thomas i Bccket, according to the tradition. 
It is, at all events, ai^certaincd that this institution took its ri64 
Tery shortly after the abovo related evint. 

Note 59, p. 299.— The Badge of the Crusaders. 

Note 60, p. 300.— The Scotch term for twilight. 

Note 61, p. 300. — The religious establishment of Newstcad Ablioy 
was consecrated to the Holy Virgin. 

Note 62, p. 300.— (See note (i)ilc.) 

Note tVJ, p. 300. — An allusion to a siege, of which Newstcad be- 
came the scene, during the civil wars. 



532 NOTES TO THE HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

NoTB 64, p. 301. — See CLARENH0!f's History qf the VebeMirn, and 
other contemporiiry royalist accounts, for the stSrvices rendered by 
the members of the family of Byron to the royal cause. 

NoTr, 65, p. 301. — An allusion to the fate of Lord Falkland, whc 
was killed at one of the battles of Newbury and Tyho was at that 
time accompanying the regiment raised and comm.Tiidcd by one of 
the Byrons. 

Note 66, p. 302. — It is recorded amongst the old wives' tales of 
that period that a portentous storm accompanied the passing 
breath of the Great Protector. Such was the superstition of either 
party that the fact (which is probable enough in itself) was con- 
Terted into an omen of Tast consequence to the fate of the realm 
and the people. It was conyeniently interpreted by the one party, 
and fearfully understood by the other. 

Note 6T, p. 302.— Charles II. 

Note 68, p. 302. — An allusion to the discovery of a brass eagle in 
the water which adorns the grounds at Newstead, which was ro- 
portid [to have belonged to the ecclesiastical occupants of the 
domain in oldeu time. 

Note 69, p. 304. — Dr. Drury, (see note anli.) 

Note 70, p. 306. — This passage refers to the method adopted by 
Lord Byron to preserve the school-room at Uarrow during the 
" barring out," which occurred in his pupilage at that college. 

Note 71, p. 306. — We need not search the records of the school, 
or geek for information from other sources than from Lord Byron's 
own writings (from his Diarj', Correspondence, &c.) to gather an 
idea of his course of life whilst at Harrow. He must certainly 
have been as troublesome and mischievous a pupil as ever wearied 
a master. 

Note 72, p. 307. — Lord Byron was deeply and acutely sensitive. 
The recurrence of some old association to his mind; the sudden 
and unexpected meeting with some former companion, ever occa- 
sioned uncontrollable emotion with him. We have very many 
remarkable anecdotes illustrative of this trait of tenderness in his 
character. 

Note 73, p. 307. — It has been reserved for our time to produce 
one distinguished example of the Muse having descended upon a 
bard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell, and we trust to 
Boothe, afflictions of no ordinary description : afflictions originating 
probably in that singular combination of feeling, which has been 
called the poetical temperament, and which has so often saddened 
the days of those on whom it has been conferred. If ever a man 
could lay claim to that character in all its strength and all its 
weakness, with its unbounded range of enjoyment, and its exqui- 
Bitc sensibility of pleasure and of pain, it must certainly be granted 
to Lord Byron. His own tale is partly told in two lines of Ida : 

"Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself— that heritage of woe I" 

Sir Walter Soott. 

Notb 74, p. 308. — The Honourable John Wingfield, an ofiBcer la 
the Coldstream Guards, and brother to Lord Powerscourt 
Note 75, p. 308.— Mr. Cecil Tattersall 



NOTES TO THE HOURS OF IDLENESS. 533 

Note 76, p. 308. — Alluding to au inculent which had weU-nigb 
cost Lord Uyron Iris life. 

Note 77, p. 109. — The nobleman referred to, is the second Earl 
of Clare, who was a Rchoolfellow of Lord Byron's, at Harrow. 

NiiTE 78, p. 309. — The fifth Earl of Dclawarr, who was also an : d 
A«s:ociato of the author's. 

Note 79, p. 309.— Mr. Edward Long. 

Note 80, p. 310. — The speeches at Harrow. 

Note 81, p. 310. — Alluding to some complimentary expressions 
elicited from Dr. Drury by Lord Byron's first recital. 

Note 82, p. 311. — There is a French proverb to the following 
effect : — 

" L'amitic c'est I'amour sans ailes." 

Note 83, p. 311. — An adaptation of Virgil's beautiful episode of 
which Nisus and Euryalus are the heroes. 

Note 84, p. 315. — Mr. Long, who was a companion of Lord'- 
Byron's at Harrow, and also a fellow-student with him at Cam- 
bridge. 

Note 85, p. 317. — Miss Chaworth, or, as she then bad become, 
Mrs. Musters. 

Note 86, p. 318. — A term synonymous with Saxon, and applied 
by the highlanders to the people of the lowlands, or of England. 

Note 87, p. 319. — The passage of the Psalm Iv. 0, "And I said, 
Oh ! that I had the wings of a dove, for then I would fly away and 
bo at rest," is readily suggested to the reader. 

Note 88, p. 319. — Morven, a mountain in the county of Aber- 
deen, in Scotland. It is of very considerable elevation. The 
expression here applied to it is of frequent use in the poems of 
Os.sian. 

Note 89, p. 319. — A phenomenon which has already been spoken 
of in the notes to " Manfred," (wliich see.) 

Note 90, p. 319. — Miss UuCT— since Mrs. Cockburn. 

Note 91, p. 320. — Colblcen; the name of a mountain in Scot- 
land. 

Note 92, p. 322. — Alluding to the criticism which appeared upon 
on Edition of the " British Auucreon." 

Note 93, p. 323. — Alluding to a threatened hostile meeting be- 
tween a certain author and his critic. 

Note 94, p. 324. — Allcgra, the illegitimate daughter of Lord 
Byron, was buried in the church at Ilarrow, according to hij 
•pccial request 9 



Notes to ISnglisf) ISarts mti Scotch 
licbictocrs. 

Non 1, p. 325. — Ilobhouse i.t here referred to. 
Note 2, p. 326. — See the passage in Juvenal, Sat i. 

" Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne roponaa 
Vezatus totivs rauci Theseidc CodrU" 



534 NOTES TO ENGLISH BARDS 

Note 3, p. 326. — The epithet is peculiarly illustrative of Fitz- 
gerald's caste of literary productions : hut it was really more than 
that worthy deserved, to he even thus severely noticed. 

Note 4, p. 326. — A further allusion to the nature of Fitzgerald's 
oelehrity. 

Note 5, p. 328. — See the concluding chapter of Don Quixote. 

NOTB 6, p. 328. — See Juvenal, Sat. i., for the parallel passage:— 

"Stulta est Clementia, cum tot uhique 
occurras periturse parcere chartas." 

Note 7, p. 328.— See the same :— 

" Cur tamen hoc liheat potius decurrere campo 
Per quern magnos cquos Auruncae flexit alumnus : 
Si vavat, et placidi rationem admittitis, sedam." 

Note 8, p. 328. — It was whilst Lord Byron was engaged in the 
composition of this incomparable satire that he turned his atten- 
tion especially to the works of Pope, the most polished writer of the 
English Augustan age; and hence our author's subsequent admira- 
tion for this, his tacit master. 

Note 9, p. 329. — An allusion to one Stott, of Morning Podt 
celebrity. His literary designation, however, was generally known 
as that of Hafiz. 

Note 10, p. 329. — " When Lord Byron wrote his famous satire, I 
had my share of flagellation among my betters. My crime was 
having written a poem for a thousand pounds: which was no 
otherwise true than that I sold the copyright for that sum." — SiB 
Walter Scott. 

Note 11, p. 329. — It is well known that Lord Byron had a delicate 
and scrupulous objection to realise money by hia works. Notwith- 
standing the original scantiness of his fortune, which had, more- 
over, been very materially lessened by the want of providence, 
which was by no means extraordinary in a person of his inclina- 
tions and habits, and by the wanton extravagance which attended 
one portion of his career, and which was more especially attributable 
to Lady Byron, he long sternly refused the handsome remittances 
of Mr. Murray ; and it was not without great difficulty that ho was 
induced to accept the siun of one thousand guineas awarded as the 
price of the " Siege of Corinth." Circumstances afterwards com- 
pelled him to accept various siuns froi^his publisher, which, great 
as they may appear, have left an ample margin to Mr. Murray; 
and although the gross amount paid by the latter was no less than 
£23,500, there can be no doubt but that he had very liberaUy 
rewarded his own share in the production of these works. 

Note 12, p. 330.— The poem, entitled " Thalaba," by Southey, is 
esrirainly of an exceptionable character. Lord Byron, who can 
never be said to have been too severe toward his contemporary, 
considering the gratuitous and unmeasured manner in which 
Southey assailed him, has withered this production. 

Note 13, p. 330. — There is a slight incongruity here, (see Southey'g 
preface.) 

Note 14, p. 331. — An allusion to a ballad of Southey's, bearing 
the facetious title of " The Old Woman of Berkeley," which ia 



AND SCOTCH UEVIEWKUS. 635 

remarkable for some of that author's quuint but meagre concep- 
Uon. 

Note 15, p. 331. — An allasion to Gifford's parody on " Socthei's 
Dactylics," wb^ch appeared in the Anti-Jacobin, especially referring 
to the expression " Qod help thee." — 

" Ne'er talk of ears again I look at thy spelling-book ; 
Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy quantities — 
Dactylica, call'st thou 'em? — 'Qod help thee,' silly one." 

NoTi 10, p. 331. — An allusion to the tenor of the preface to tba 
works of that \friter. 
NoTi 17, p. 331. — An allusion to some poems by Coleridge. 
Note 18, p. 331.— Thia line originally stood thus :— 

"A fellow-feeling makes us. wondrous kind." 

Note 19, p. 331. — Mr. Matthew Lewis, who was a member of the 
House of Commons at the time. 

Note 20, p. 331. — This contains an allusion to a passage in a 
pieoe, which appeared in "The Statesman," and which is attributed 
to Jekyll. It was addressed to Mr. Lewis. 

Note 21, p. 332. — See Lorp Stranqford's Translation ofCAMOEKS 
at page 127, and note; also the criticism on this work, which ap- 
peared in the Edinburgh Jieview at the time of its publication. 

Note 22, p. 332. — An allusion to the quantities of spurious poems, 
which bare been thrust by his translators and commentators 
upon the sboulders of CamoSns, and of which he was purely guilt- 
less. 

Note 23, p. 332.—" The Triumph of Temper," and " The Triumph 
of Music," are amongst the poetical productions of Hayley. 

Note 24, p. 333. — An allusion to Orahamc, the author of a 
wretched production entitled "Sabbath Walks," "Biblical Pic- 
tures," and of other similar stuff. Lord Byron had dignified him 
by the censure. Ills poems arc far beneath it, and would probably 
have never been dreamt of but for the satire. At all events this 
precious writer richly deserved the lash. 

Note 25, p. 333. — Alluding in particular to two productions of 
Mr. Bowles, the " Sonnet to Oxford," and the " Stanzas on 
hearing the bells of Ostend." The last is truly a poetical 
subject. 

Note 26, p. 333. — An allusion to a precious amatory epi- 
sode. 

Note 27, p. 833. — Lord Byron latterly severely regretted the 
publication of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, in which he 
was conociouR that ho had abandoned himself to the utmcU 
acrimony awakened by his censors, but it docs not appear that 
ho ever regretted the figure whicfa Bowles was made to cut in that 
satire. 

Note 28, p. 334.— See Pope's Jhinciad. Curll was a Book- 
»ill'r. The sobriquet of Lord Fanny will be in like manner 
explained. 

.Note 2&, p. 334. — An allusion to the employment of Mallet by 
Ixird Itolingbrokc, in the exemplary serv'ce of aspersing against 
tbi< nu'niorr of Popo 






5.';6 NOTES TO ENGLISH BAKUS 

XoTE 30, p. 334. — ^Dennis and Ralph, who figure in the "Duwciad" 

lit" I 'ope: — 

" Silence, ye wolves I while Ralph to Cynthia howls. 
Making night hideous ; answer him, ye owls !" 

Note 31, p. 334. — An error, see the "Antiquities of Greece" or 
" Lempriere's Classical Dictionary," under the head of Helicon. 

Note 32, p. 334. — An allusion to Messieurs Cottle, of whom Lrrd 
lyron says, that they were "once sellers of books they did not 
write, and now writers of books they do not sell." They signalized 
themselves by the production of two Epic poems, as they were 
pleased to call them. 

Note 33, p. 334. — An allusion to the author of a species of 
didactic, respecting "Richmond Hill," " Westmin.ster Abbey," and 
other poems, and who crowned all by one of the most self-sufficient 
autobiographies that ever stamped a man for conceit. 

Note 34, p. 335. — An allusion to the manner in which the poems 
of Montgomery were received in England and in Scotland, in each 
of which he was very differently handled. Lord Byron does not 
treat him very harshly. 

Note 35, p. 335. — Mr. Crowe's Criticism on the " English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers," was so just, as far as literary acumen was 
concerned, that it induced Lord Byron to alter many words in the 
original text, particularly referred to by the Critic. 

Note 36, p. 335. — The elevation which overlooks the Capital of 
Scotland. 

Note 37, p. 335. — Sydney Smith only retained the conduct of the 
Edinburgh Review for a few numbers. It was subsequently edited 
by Jeffrey, who has since been Lord Advocate of Scotland, and a 
Lord of the Session. 

Note 38, p. 336. — An allusion to the hostile meeting between 
Jeffrey and Moore, and to the tattle which became current respect- 
ing it in the papers concerning the interference of the authorities, 
and the harmless manner in which the arms were foxind to have 
been loaded. 

Note 39, p. 336. — A bantering sally, involving the questicn ol 
national rivalry. 

Note 40, p. 336. — The sarcasm is too local to be of much interest 
now. Yet it is certainly well pointed at the virtuoso and antiquar 
rian affectation of that nobleman, and was well understood by 
himself and by those who were acquainted with his pretensions 
and pursuits. 

Note 41, p. 336. — A writer who was occupied especially with the 
nVidy and translation of the literature of Iceland and Norway. 

Note 42, p. 336. — Sydney Smith. 

NoiE 43, p. 336. — An allusion to one of Hallam's criticisms. 

Note 44, p. 336. — A tutor at Eton. 

Note 45, p. 337. — An allusion to critical and dramatical works bjr 
that author. 

Note 46, p. 337. — Referring to the consequences of some ot 
Brougham's articles in the Edinburgh Review. 

Note 47, p. 337. — Refers to the cover of that periodical. 

Note 48, p. 337. — Lord Henry Petty, one of the great wits of biB 
day, since better known as JIarquis of Lansdowne. 

_. C 



AND SCOTCH i!i;viKwr.iis. ^37 

Note 45, p. 337. — Alluding to some tranFlatioDR by Lord llol- 
loud. • 

Note 00, j). 337. — A remark toucbing bcr critical supremacy. 

Note 51, p. 337.— Seo tbc play of Tekoli. 

Note 5"i, p. 338. — Adapting that author's prevailing phrases. 

Note 53, p. 338. — Kenny, whoso dramatical productions had 
secured him so high a reputation, and who it will bo remembcrtid 
died very suddenly on the eve of a benefit which had been very 
liberally got up in his behalf in the course of the present summer 
(of 1819.) 

Note 54, p. 338. — Alluding to some tricks playei by that gentle 
man during his management of Drury Lane. 

Note 66, p. 338. — Theexccedinghilarity and joyous wit of Colman 
rendered him very eminent &s a boon companion. 

Note 6G, p. 338. — Cumberland, whoso works were so popular in 
their day. 

Note 57, p. 338. — Alluding to the success of a pantomime, by 
Dibdin. 

Note 68, p. 338. — The occupation of that person about Drory 
Lane Theatre. 

Note 59, p. 338. — An allusion to SkeflBngton's dramatical works. 

Note 60, p. 339. — Both well known upon the boards. 

Note 61, p. 339. — The place and not the person. 

Note 62, p. 339. — The relations of Petronius with the Emperor 
Nero are well known. 

Note 63, p. 341. — Mr. Andrews, a powder manufacturer and small 
writer in his way. 

Note 64, p. 341. — An allusion to a pamphlet by the Earl of Car- 
lisle on the condition of the English drama. 

Note 65, p. 341. — A parody ridiculing a poem entitled "Elijah's 
Mantle." 

Note 66, p. 341. — An allusion to some trifling works. 

Note 67, p. 342. — Assumed names currently known at the time aa 
attached to the fragmentary poetry of the papers. 

Note 68, p. 342. — The same to whom Lord Byron has addressed a 
small piece. (See Occasional Pieces.) Joseph Blackett was a shoe- 
maker. 

Note 69, p. 342. — Indicating the same. 

Non 70, p. 342. — A sarcasm on the ostentatious patronage of Mr. 
Lofft. 

Note 71, p. 342. — Alluding to a piece by Bloomfleld. 

Note 72, p. 342. — Refer to the " Recollections of a Weaver." 

Note 72, p. 342. — Thomas Campbell and Samuel Rogers, wh08« 
reputation was long since established by the " Pleasures of Hope" 
-f the one, and the " Pleasures of Memory" of the other. 

Note 74, p. 343. — OilTord, well known as the author of the Baviod 
and Micviad. 

Note 75, p. 343. — The author of some translations and original 
works. Tbc name of Sothcby is so little heard of now, that the 
entiriral censure of Lord Byron seems to have been confirmed by 
public opinion. 

Note 70, p. 343. — Macncil's poems bad an astonishing run in thoit 
turn. 
\ Note 77. p. 343. — An alltinion to nn nnnriunrement of <jlin'ord'i. 



633 NOTES TO ENGLISH BARDS. 

Note 78, p. 343. — The melancholy death and the merits of Eirk« 
White are well known. 

Note 79, p. 344. — Shee, who from his little productions of that 
period, has since attained great eminence. 

Note SO, p. 344. — Mr. AY right, whose poem entitled "Hor« 
ronicae" is certainly distinguished by great merit. 

Note 81, p. 344. — Bland and Meriyale. 

NoTB 82, p. 345. — Lamb and Lloyd. 

Note 83, p. 345.— Alluding to " the Shipwreck of St. Paul," by 
Hoare. 

Note 84, p. 346. — AUuding to " Exodus," by Hoyle. 

Note 85, p. 346. — See the preface to " Exodus," (note 84.) The 
Book of Play by another Hoyle is of more established reputation. 

Note 86, p. 346. — A sarcastic adaptation of the passage in Gibbon's 
"Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," vol. ii. p. 83. "Into Cam- 
bridgeshire the Emperor Probus transported a considerable body 
of Vandals." 

Note 87, p. 346. — A writer whose first production, a translation, 
was worthy of the admiration which it met. 

Note 88, p. 346. — Thus written. 

Note 89, p. 346. — A poem entitled the " Aboriginal Britons." 

Note 90, p. 347. — Alluding to a caustic remark respecting the 
Duke of Portland. 

Note 91, p. 347. — Georgia. 

Note 92, p. 347. — Sir John Carr was notorious for his love of 
gossip. 

Note 93, p. 347. — A sarcasm on the eagerness of Lord Elgin to 
attribute all his pilfered marbles to the hand of Phidias. 

Note 94, p. 347. — "Classic" was the term used in the original 
text; it was not until several editions had been printed, that the 
word " rapid" was substituted. 

Note 95, p. 347. — An allusion to Cell's researches on the site of 
ancient Troy, and to his work on the subject. 

Note 96, p. 348. — In after years, Lord Byron felt and expressed 
considerable regret that this poem should ever have seen the day. 



Notes to C^e (twxm of i^inciba. 

Note 1, p. 349. — This satire was too severely personal for even 
Lord Byron to suffer its fuU dissemination at the period when it 
was written. The apologists of Lord Elgin, however, sadly fail in 
making out their case when they urge in his defence that the col- 
lection of Athenian marbles "has been of the most essential 
advantage to the fine arts of our own country." 

Note 2, p. 349. — See note ante ; and an account of the death of 
Socrates. 

Note 3, p. 349. — See note ante (to the " Giaour.") 

Note i, p. 350. — See note ante (to the word "kiosk.") 



NOTES TO THK CURSE OP MINERVA. 539 

Note 6, p. 351. — On the plaster wall, on the west side of the 
ehapel, these words have been very deeply cut : — 

Qdod non fecekunt Goti, 
Hoc PECEttUNT Scon. 

The mortar wall, yet fresh when we saw jt, supplying the place ol 
the statue now in Lord Klgin's collection, serves as a comment ot 
this text. This eulogy of the Gotlis alludes to an unfounded story 
of a Greek historian, who relates that Alaric, either terrified ty 
two phantom.o, one of Minerva herself, the other of Achilles, terrible 
n.<< when he strode towards the walls of Troy to his friends, or strnck 
with a reverential respect, had spared the treasures, ornaments, 
and people of the venerable city. — IIobuousk. 

IvoTB 0, p. 351. — Alluding to Athens generally. 

Note 7, p. 351. — Alluding to the notices of that nobleman which 
have been questionably carved in the Parthenon, <S:c. 

NoTi 8, p. 351. — A citation. The term is merely adopted. 

Note 9, p. 352.— The grant of £35,000, for the purchase of Lord 
Elgin's collection. 

Note 10, p. 353. — Alluding to a remark of West's on the subject. 

KoTE 11, p. 353. — A term aptly applied to the residence of Lord 
Elgin. 

Note 12, p. 353.— That the Elgin marbles will contribute to the 
improvement of art in England, cannot be doubted. They must 
certainly open the eyes of British artists, and prove that the true 
and only road to simplicity and beauty is the study of nature — II. 
W. WnxiAMS. 

Note 13, p. 353. — An allusion to Copenhagen. 

Note 14, p. 353.— See the lines of Pope :— 

" Blest paper credit ! last and best supply, 
That lends corruption lighter wings to fly." 

Note 15, p. 354. — An allusion to the trade in bullion and coin, m 
actively carried on from the south-eastern ports during the war. 



Notes to (^tit to Napoleon. 

Note 1, p. 303. — 

" Produce the urn that Hannibal contains. 
And weigh the mighty dust which yet remains : 
And is Tnis all?" 

t know not that this was ever done in theOld World ; at least, with 
regard to Ilannibal: but, in the statistical account of Scotland. I 
Bad that .Sir John I'aterson had the curiosity to collect, and weigh, 
the ashes of a person discovered a few years since in the parish of 
Kccles; which he was happily enabled to do with great facility, aa 
" th» inside of the coffin wa« smooth, and the whole body visible." 



64C NOTES TO ODE TO NAPOI-EON. 

Wonderful to relate, he found the whole did not exceed in weight 
one ounce and a half I And is this all? Alas I the quot Ubras 
itself is a satirical exaggeration. — Gifford. 

Note 2, p. 364. — See Cassiodorus respecting the great battle fought 
hy Attila, on the Catalaunean plain. 

Note 3, p. 364.— Sylla. 

Note 4, p. 364. — Count Neipperg, who afterwards married Maria 
l/ouisa. 

Note 5 p. 365. — The well-known anecdote of Dionysius the 
younger. 

Note 6, p. 366. — AUusion to the Iron Cage, in which Bajazet II. 
was paraded about by Timour the Tartar. 

Note 7, p. 366. — Prometheus, (see Lempriere's Class. Diet.) 

Note 8, p. 366. — A story of this kind is told of Napoleon : the 
lines were perhaps suggested by those of Shakspeare : — 

" The very fiend's arch mock, — 

To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." . 



Notes to l^efireh) JHelotiies. 

Note 1, p. 367. — The author was never cverproud of these pro- 
ductions. 

Note 2, p. 367. — The measures of Jewish Minstrelsy was always 
arbitrary. 

Note 3, p. 367. — Lines suggested by the dress of a lady, who was 
present at an entertainment in which Lord Byron took part. 

Note 4, p. 376. — Mariamne, the wife of Herod the Great, falling 
under the suspicion of infidelity, was put to death, by his order. 
She was a woman of unrivalled beauty, and a haughty spirit : un- 
happy in being the object of passionate attachment which bordered 
on frenzy, to a man who had more or less concern in the murder 
of her grandfather, father, brother, and uncle, and who had twice 
commanded her death, in case of his own. Ever after, Ucrod was 
haunted by the image of the murdered Mariamne, until disorder 
of the mind brought on disorder of body which led to temporary 
derangement. — Miluan. 



Kotes to domestic |)ie«0. 



Note 1, p. 380. — See Moore's account of these pieces. 
Note 2, p. 382. — Suggested by actual incidents.' 
Note 3, p. 383. — Written just before his last departure from EDg- 
land, his sister having been attending upon him. 
Note 4, p. 386. — There is a life in the linos wliich benivaks the 
j UDPahiy .slate of Lord IJvrun whilst at tlie lii^diiti (Coligny.) 

I! 



NOTKS TO DOMESTIC PIECES. 541 

Note fi, p. 38C. — An allusion to the romarkablo casualties Trnick 
•Iwnys befell Admiral Byron. 

NoTK C, p. 3S0. — Tho watcT which adorns the grounds at New* 
ettad. 

KoTB 7, p. 387. — Seo noto ante. 



Notes to QLf)t Bccam. 

Note 1, p. 393. — This most melancholy but beautiful poem in 
which tho most cankering s >rrow of Lord Byron is imbosomcd was 
first entitled " The Destiny." 

Note 2, p. 395. — An attachment which Lord Byron concealed. 

Note 3, p. 396. — A yery true and painful representation of tho 
actual celebration of his own marriage. It agrees, in many circum- 
stances, with Lord Byron's prose account of tho wedding in his 
Memoranda. 

Note 4, p. 397. — Mithridates of Fontus. 



Notes to ©ije ?laraent of ^asso. 

Note 1, p. 398. — This poem was suggested by a Tery brief yisit to 
the place of confinement of tho grcate.it of Italian poets at Ferrara. 

Note 2, p. 398.— In the Hospital of St. Anna, at Ferrara, they 
show a cell, over the door of which is the following inscription:— 
"Rippottate, posteri, la cclebritk di ouesta stanza, dove Torquato 
Tasso, infermo piA di tristczza che delirio, ditenuto dimord anni vii. 
nn'ci ii., scripse verso o prose, e ffl rimesso in liberty nd instanza 
di-lla citti di Bergamo, ncl giorno vi I.uglio, 1686." — Tho dungeon 
i.H bi'low the ground floor of the hospital, and tho light penetrate* 
throuRh its grated window from a small yard, which seems to have 
b"cn common to other cells. It is nine paces long, between flve 
and ."ix wide, and about seven feet high. The bedstead, so they tell, 
has been carried off piecemeal, and tho door half cut away, by tho 
devotion of those whom " tho verse and the proso" of the prisonoi 
nave brought to Ferrara. The poet was confined in this room from 
tho middle of March, 1579, to Deccmlx'r, 15S0, when he was removed 
to a contiguous apartment much larger, in which, to use his own 
expri.'ssions, he could " philosophise and walk about." — IIonnouSB. 

NoTn 3, p. 399. — For nearly tho first year of his confinement 
Tasso endured all tho horrors of a solitary cell, and was under tho 
care of a gaoler, whose chief virtue, although he was a poet and a 
miiu of letters, was a cruel obedience to the commands of his prince. 



54? NOTES TO THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 

His name was Agostino Mosti. Tasso soys of him, in a letter to 
nis sister, " ed usa meco ogni sorte di rigore ed inumaniti." — Hob- 
douse. 

Note 4, p. 400. — This fearful picture is finely contrasted with thtit 
which Tasso draws of himself in youth, when nature and meditar 
tion were forming his wild, romantic, and impassioned genius. 
Indeed, the great excellence of the " Lament" consists in the ebb- 
ing and flowing of the noble prisoner's soul ; — his feelings often 
come suddenly from afar off, — sometimes gentle airs are breathing, 
and then all at once arise the storms and tempests, — the gloom, 
though black as night while it endures, gives way to frequent 
bursts of radiance, — and when the wild strain is closed, our pity 
and commiseration are blended with a sustaining and elevating 
iense of the grandeur and majesty of his character. — Wilson. 

Note 5, p. 400. — Not long after his imprisonment, Tasso appealed 
to the mercy of Alfonso, in a canzone of great beauty, couched in 
terms so respectful and pathetic, as must have moved, it might be ^ 
thought, the severest bosom to relent. The heart of Alfonso was, 
aowever, impregnable to the appeal ; and Tasso, in another ode to 
the princesses, whose pity he invoked in the name of their own 
mother, who had herself known, if not horrors, the like solitude 
of imprisonment, and bitterness of soul, made a similar appeal. — 
lAJt of Ta&so, vol. ii. p. 408. 

Note 6, p. 400. — The historical allusion itself is open to question. 

Note 7, p. 401. — Tasso's profound and unconquerable love for 
Leonora, sustaining itself without hope throughout years of dark- 
ness and solitude, breathes a moral dignity over all his sentiments, 
and we feel the strength and power of his noble spirit in the un- 
apbraiding devotedness of his passion. — Wilson. 



Notes to \%t Utston of gutigment. 

Note 1, p. 404. — A very severe satire on the poem under the same 
title by Southey. 

Note 2, p. 404. — Alluding to the refusal of an injunction to protect 
the copyright of " Wat Tyler." 

Note 3, p. 404. — See Parliamentary Debates, March 14th, 1817, 
Southey's Reply. 

Note 4, p. 404. — The well-known inscription by Southey, in which 
he celebrates the aspirations of Martin the regicide, who was im- 
prisoned for thirty years in Chepstow Castle. 

Note 5, p. 405. — An imitation of the lines published in the "Anti- 
facobin." 

Note 6, p. 406. — Mr. Walter Savage Landor, well known in the 
fiterary world for his classical and critical acumen, was amongst 
the earlier acquaintances of Southey. 

Note 7, p. 408.— The period of the death of George III. wa* 
marked by the general revolts in the southern part of Kurope. 

Note 8, p. 410. — An allusion to the fate of Louis XVI. 



KOTES TO THE VISION OK JmoMKNT. 543 

NoTB 9, p. 412. — Suggested by tho description of the rimarkitblo 
Aurora Borealit, witnessed by Captain Parry in his voyage, (1819- 
20.) 

NoTB 10, p 412.— For a notice of Johanna Scuthcoto, see the 
Quarterly licriew, vol. xxiv. p. 49G. 

NoTK 11, p. 414. — " No saint in the course of his religious 'warfare 
was more sensible of tho unhappy failure of pious resolves than 2)r. 
Johnson : he said one day, talking to an acquaintance on this (Ob- 
ject, ' Sir, hell is paved with good intentions.' " — Busweli. vol t p. 
305, ed. 1833. 

NoTB 12, p. 416. — Alluding to the obstinate opposition offcn ' » 
all conciliatory measures towards the Soman Catholics, by Qt ,« 
III. 

Note 13, p. 417. — The Lord Chamberlain's Badge. 

Note 14, p. 417. — Alluding to an expression used by Horace Wal- 
pole. 

Note 15, p. 420. — Mr. Wilkes made himself sufiScicntly notorious 
in his own time. 

Note 16, p. 421. — The supposititious authors of the letters of 
Junius. 

Note 17, p. 422. — Alluding to a work professedly elucidating the 
great mystery of the reign of Louis XIV., " the man with the Iron 
Mask ;" and to another work on the same subject by Lord Dover. 
It should be remarked that these elucidation.^ do not seem to have 
done much towards setting the question at rest. It is as much a 
matter of doubt now as ever. 

Note 18, p. 422. — That the work entitled "The identity of Junius 
with a distinguished Living Character established" proves Sir Philip 
Francis to be Junius, we will not affirm ; but thi.s we can safely 
assert, that it accumulat4.'S such a ma.<;s of circum.stantial evidence 
as renders it extremely difficult to believe he is not, and that, if so 
many coincidences shall be found to have misled us in this case, our 
faith in all conclusions drawn from proofs of a similar kind may 
henceforth be shaken. — Mackintosh. 

Note J9, p. 423. — The motto of Junius. 

Note 20, p. 424. — The retreat of Southey in tho North of England 

NoTX 21, p. 425. — See the lines of Horace : — 
— " Mcdiocribus esse poetis 
Non Di, non homines, non concessere columnse." 

NoTX 22, p. 425.— The well-known habit of George III. of re: > 
rating bit words, which has been admirably caricatured by l*c l 
P'dadar. 

Note 23, p. 425. — Pye was the Laureate whom Southey *uj 
rccdeil. 

Note 24, p. 426.— Refer to the life of Kirko White, attached \» 
bis poems. 

Note 25, p. 427. — Alluding to a shrewd remark on the absurdillM 
of tho Ptolemean system. 

Note 26, p. 427. — See the Antiouary, vol. i. p. 225. 

Note 27, p. 427.— It is known that a dead body floats at Its 
decomposition. 



M4 NOTES TO OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Notes to (Occasional pieces. 

Note 1, p. 431. — The skull of which tliis drinldng cup was madi 
had been dug up in the grounds at Ncwstead. 

Note 2, p. 432.— Suggested by the first sight of the child of J£rg. 
Husters. 

Note 3, p. 439. — In Albania. 

Note 4, p. 444. — This is a very accurate translation of the fins 
long of Riga, one of the heroes of Grecian independence. 

Note 5, p. 445. — Constantinople. 

Note 6, p. 445. — Refer to an account of the career of Riga. II« 
Jras a native of Thessaly. 

Note 7, p. 445. — Adopted from a popular song amongst the Greelr. 
women. 

Note 8, p. 455. — An allusion to an anecdote concerning the 
Princess Charlotte. 

Note 9, p. 456. — For the reopening of Drury Lane Theatre. 

Note 10, p. 456. — An allusion to the aspect of the fire, from 
Westminster Bridge. 

Note 11, p. 458. — The sequel of a temporary liaison, formed by 
Lord Byron during his gay but brief career in London, occasioned 
the composition of this Impromptu. On the cessation of the con- 
nection, the fair one, actuated by jealousy, called one morning at 
her quondam lover's apartments. His lordship was from homo ; 
but finding "Vathek" on the table, the lady wrote in the first page 
of the volume the words "Remember me!" Byron immediately 
wrote under the ominous warning these two stanzas. — Medwin. 

Note 12, p. 465. — He was killed in America in 1814. 

Note 13, p. 468.— See Rev. vii. 6, 10, 11. 

Note 14, p. 468. — An allusion to the reported desecration of Uie 
body of Murat after its interment. 

Note 15, p. 470. — The scene which accompanied the last sentence 
(for such it was) in Napoleon. 

Note 16, p. 470. — Instances of extraordinary heroism relat<\<4 o< 
the contending armies In the Netherlands. 

Note 17, p. 471. — The French natirnal colours. 

NoTH 18, p. 477. — Geneva, Ferney oopet, Lausanne. 



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